Apparently. I've been reading Annie Dillard and EB White and writing about hats. And preparing to speak about "Death of a Pig," an event I hope to never participate in. I have this fear that one day I'm going to come home and find Snickers dead. No, actually the nightmare is that she is murdered, split open, as if that was the intent of a robbery. Someone breaks into my apartment and robs Snickers of life. That is cliche, but not the split open part. Why is that my fear? Does it have anything to do with the fact that she frequently splits my skin? Just slight scratches seem to dig deep. She doesn't have to work to kill. I imagine she'd make quick work of a mouse, though I hope that, too, never happens.
When I was growing up, we had a cat. Well, several. But one was Cuddles, and we had her the longest of my growing years. She died at age thirteen in our basement, bladder emptied around her on the tile. I couldn't walk past that spot--though there was no actual spot--on the floor for months, years. It was tainted, ghosted.
Snickers is only three, but what happens when, ten years from now, her body gives out and becomes a spot on the floor somewhere in my house. How do I forgive the spot of death?
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