I attended a funeral today for Mrs. K, a woman I’ve known and adored for twenty six years. I last saw her in November at the local grocery store, shortly after my mother had passed. Listening to Mrs. K’s eldest son eulogize her was fucking tough. Almost too much to bear. Nicole was sitting beside me though, and I managed to calm down—my girl has a soothing presence. We cried together at the end of a cushioned pew, and I silently scolded myself for forgetting to bring a box of tissues.
After the service, we had lunch. There were smiles and laughs, and I was determined to enjoy the rest of my day.
Then the goddamned cat happened.
A black, grey, and white fluffy tabby approached me, and Nicole as she was getting into her car to return to work. This poor baby had straw tangled in its fur; mucus coating its whiskers…like burnt yellow candle wax; mucus gluing its right eye closed; blood and mucus so thickly crusted on its nose that breathing was heavily labored; and the odor of rot emanated from its cold body. This cat was half fucking dead, I swear. And it approached us with such purpose—I know this little darling was asking for help.
Nicole phoned a nearby animal shelter, but they were already overcapacity. So, I put the cat in my car, and drove 35 miles to a larger shelter. The women who greeted me at the shelter were kind, and they spoke so sweetly to the tabby. And they walked away with the bundle. To the “euth” room.
Consider this my formal resignation.
I quit today.
I fucking quit.