Suicide and That Darn Cat

A few years ago I seriously thought about killing myself.

Clearly I didn’t … unless I am writing this blog via an ouija board. WooooOOOOOOoooooo!

Why did I come close to killing myself? I guess I reached that butter zone where depression combines with sorrow. I do not think any of the people reading this blog (yes, the plural of person. That surprised you, huh?) will find my reasons to be valid. Hah, if suicide can have a valid reason. I think it can do but this blog isn’t about that.

Again, why did I come close to killing myself?

My cat died.

There. Silly really.

It was a few years ago. The cat was 23 years old. I had owned him, as much as anyone can own a cat, for the majority of my life. It was just a cat but still I honestly thought and prepared to kill myself.

The thing you have to understand is that a pet is not simply a furry tube in which you stick food in at one end and throw away whatever comes out of the other. A pet is, for a lot of people, a companion. Sometimes it is their only companion, their only way of having someone love them.

My cat wasn’t a companion as such. My cat was indifferent to me but I still loved him and that is enough.

He died of extreme old age. Twenty-three is pretty old for a cat. He died because he simply stopped.

The days before his death were bad. He clearly knew something was up. He went upstairs to one of the back rooms on the first floor and prepared himself for death. I accompanied him. He mewed for the first time in nearly fifteen years. He was not vocal whatsoever. But now he mewed, pitifully. Unless, of course, I stroked him.

I took him downstairs because I didn’t want him to be alone. Was that selfish? Possibly. But I have already mentioned that I think suicide is justified in some circumstances so my selfishness should be taken as said.

For the next few days he refused to eat unless he was given cooked chicken. He would drink water. Once a day he would unsteadily make his way outside to do his business before returning and making his way up the chair to the alcove under the cupboard.

His legs bent at an unnatural angle when rested. He quickly lost strength in his limbs.

The day of his death was bad. He tried to get down but he couldn’t. He collapsed and fell down the chair and landed on the floor where he remained motionless.

He wasn’t dead but he was as close to death as anyone could be.

I held him in my arms and that was where he died.

I buried him. I dug a hole big enough for him, one foot down. I wrapped him up and placed him in the hole before moving the soil on top of his frail body.

Then I went to bed and cried and cried and cried.

I thought of death. I didn’t think it would be bad.

Death isn’t bad, really, maybe, possibly, but it is not always the answer. So I didn’t kill myself. I don’t know why. I just didn’t. I continued living and I am still alive now (duh).

Suicide will always hold an attraction to me but I am stronger than I imagined. I won’t kill myself for reasons such as sorrow or being bereft. Ennui maybe…

That is all I have to say on the matter.

Mischief managed.

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About greebohobbes

All-round irritant, expert swordsman (loves lopping off the heads of ghouls), professional charlatan and outrageous wearer of black cocktail dresses...
This entry was posted in BekHobbes, cat, depression, existence, family, love, memories, opinion, questions, reallife, sorrow. Bookmark the permalink.

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