It was quick dying: the explanation, the shave,
swab of alcohol, lethal injection, even the doctor’s flick
against his eye. I expected someone would use a stethoscope,
kept holding the little body because the eyes stayed open
and his breaths had often been too shallow to notice.
But the cat was dead. I cried with grief or shock
at the suddenness of that. The woman who had been holding
his neck found a towel, tucked the limp legs into
a neat package, and passed it to me like one would an infant.
“You’ll get another cat,” she consoled.
Driving home, I wished I owned a yard to dig a grave.
I didn’t have the money for cremation,
which seemed excessive anyway for a dead cat.
Like spending a whole day in bed for a dead cat. But I did.
I allowed his brother to join me while I wrote, read,
called my mother to recount petty tragedies.
Deep into October, my heater still lay dormant,
and as I talked on the phone Linus slunk off the bed
to test the cold rays of sun then returned, disappointed.
My mother described a funeral she had just driven to.
Her afternoon in Texas was warmer. On the subject of pets
we sighed, and that was mourning enough.
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