7/30/09 05:40 am
I will be in New York City on Monday. And I have no what I'm going to do once I get there. I imagine Lacey and I will walk out of Penn Station with our mouths open and just stand there.
"Now what?"
"Now what?"
She first showed up at our doorstep in the hands of a man who claimed she belonged to us. Couldn't have been older than two months. Before we could protest, he set her down and took off. Immediately, she trotted inside like she owned the place. My parents left her out front with a bowl of milk and figured she'd be gone by morning. The morning came and we found her hanging off our security door by her claws. We belonged to her. And that was that.
It's thirteen years later, and with that same undeterred tenacity, she still refuses to leave us despite my whispered assurances that it was alright to finally let go; that although we'd never be the same, we'd be okay without her. It's been a month since she had gotten sick, a week since we found out she was irrevocably affected by cancer, 24 hours since she's eaten.
It's down to minutes and seconds. Her eyes are starting to take a glazed hue, but she still attempts to lift her head when I kneel down beside her. She's still purring. I used to joke that she was just too stupid to figure out how to stop, because the vibration was constant. But it was just her unfaltering, bright eyed gaeity.
The plant she's resting next to has shed some of its dead leaves and they surround her. The symbolism is not lost on me. I hold my breath and wait for hers to stop.
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