Two nights ago, I dreamed that my cat, Mackie, had died. It was such an intense dream that I was genuinely surprised she stayed alive that day. But my heart is so heavy, because I know it's time for her to go. She is skin and bones, eating and drinking ravenously but losing weight all the same. Now, she wakes up enough to puke, pee and poop, usually in all the wrong places.
She's alive today mainly by my own fear and selfishness. Mackie found me when I was 20 years old, and in the final throws of active alcoholism. I was wearing my black leather jacket, and my "badass" dagger earrings, when I spotted a tiny kitten on the side of the road. I stuck her in my pocket, and hid her away in my dormroom until the spring term ended and I moved to an apartment. She's been with me ever since... as I got sober, finished college, engaged, engagement broken off, moved back home and back out again. Then marriage, three children, an out of state move... All with Mackie.
But this is the end, even thought I hardly remember the beginning anymore, since it was a lifetime ago. I will miss her deperately, my constant companion.
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