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It’s been three days since I made the decision to end my cat’s life. There – I said it. No quibbling, no ‘it was for the best’, no nothing. I done killed my kitty. Sure, the vet said he was really sick. He was down to six pounds because of his refusal to eat, his kidneys were shutting down, and he had numerous abdominal masses. But deliberately ending his life? My fault. All my fault.

I never expected Sparky to live with us for 17 years. He was the tiniest kitten I had ever seen. The two boys and I were walking through the mall in 1992 and they dragged me into the pet store. There, in a cage near the back, were two orange and white kittens. One looked more like a teenage cat, one was a fluff ball the size of my hand. They told us these two were siblings. Yeah, right. The little one meowed constantly with a tiny little ‘meerp’. He wouldn’t let us go by, but kept his eyes on us. I got him out of the cage to hold him for a minute before we went home. Then he started purring. This tiny ball of orange and white fluff purred like a dishwasher. Over the cacophany of the mall, even my boys heard him.

I didn’t even balk. I bought him on the spot. It was only on the drive home when I wondered what I as going to tell the darling husband.

He slept on my pillow for almost all his life. He once got treed by a raccoon and peed all over darling husband who tried to help him down. He had two ‘vacations’ of about two weeks each, and I was sure he was dead each time. He fought and sprayed, inside and out. I’m pretty sure he had Catzheimer’s for the last year or so. He hated both dogs he had the misfortune to live with. He was the leader of the dust bunny rebel alliance.

He was my Sparky.



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