I found out over the weekend that my fears came true. The cat that died on Friday was mine. His name was Chow. He would lay on his back in my room on my carpet. I couldn't use my hands because of my allergies but I would use my foot to play with him and he'd paw at my leg. At night, I would walk the dogs and he'd run up a tree. He was a hell of a climber. I lost my dog last October and I've noticed that there's a difference in losing a cat versus a dog. The circumstances weren't the same but for me, losing my dog was like a death in the family. It was hard, painful to lose him because even though he was twelve years old it was so sudden but drawn out. With Chow, I liken it to survivors guilt. All this week, I've had him in my thoughts and I think to myself that if I had been home, if I didn't let him out, if I had done one thing differently I'd have my friend with me. It chokes me up to write this. I didn't get to say goodbye.
