I had just gotten back from school when my world began to crumble around me. It was a Friday, so like any other kid who had just suffered through an entire week of excruciating labor, I was very excited to kick back and relax. Eagerly I dropped my crimson backpack to the floor, letting it fall with a loud thud that must have echoed through the entire house. Still in my school uniform, I plop onto my bed and pull out my phone. Maybe I’ll watch another episode of Lost, I think to myself, unaware that my life would change forever in the coming hours. You see, it was on this day, Friday, October 17th 2014, that one of my cats, Brenna, died. I knew this cat for my entire life. My parents had bought her, along with her twin brother, all the way back in 1996 when they still lived in New Jersey. She was my constant companion, always following me around, sleeping beside me in my bed. Her illness came seemingly out of nowhere, as she had only gotten sick five days prior to her death. Yet there I laid in my bed, blissfully unaware of what was to come and completely absorbed in the episode of Lost I was watching. As I eagerly watched an exchange of words between Jack Shephard and John Locke, my mom threw open the door. I put down my phone, disheartened by the troubled expression on my mother’s face. Something was wrong, and my mind immediately came to its conclusion: Brenna was getting worse. Yet my words betrayed my thoughts as I opened my mouth to stammer, “What is it?”. “We have to take Brenna to Banfield,” my mom said, her face still frozen in that state of worry and concern, “She’s getting worse.” My face grew pale as I registered the gravity of the situation. Still, my conscious latched onto the sliver of hope that somehow this wouldn’t be the end. Slowly, I take a deep breath then nod my head. ‘Okay,’ I replied, my mind still attempting to digest this bit of information. My mom vacated the room, leaving my milk-white door ajar. I clambered out of bed and shut the door gently, deciding that I don’t want to be wearing this drab uniform if Brenna ends up dying. I opened my narrow closet and riffled through the drawers of my dresser like a raccoon digging through garbage. Minutes later, I emerged out of my room wearing a navy shirt and a pair of old jeans, gripping tightly onto my phone. When I arrived downstairs, I found my brother, sister, and mother already set to go, looking as weary as ever. In the air I heard the heavy breathing of Brenna, like a ghost whispering in the wind. I looked down, spotting Brenna’s emerald eyes gleaming in
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I tried to resume the episode of Lost I was watching at home, but I was too distracted and too worried to pay deep attention to anything. Finally, after nearly an hour of waiting my mother returned clutching Brenna in her arms, eyes stained red from crying. The moment of realization hit me heavier than a hammer hits nails. It’s over. Brenna had been diagnosed with stomach cancer, an uncommon and almost rare disease that affects only older cats. She had been suffering from it for quite some time, but worst of the illness had hit her in the week before her untimely demise. As me and my siblings gave Brenna one last hug, my mom told us she had to be put down. I was in utter disbelief at this revelation, but inside I knew it was the right choice. Letting her live would only increase her pain and make her inevitable death all the more painful. I stroked Brenna’s fur one last time before my mother gave her to the veterinarians. After the nurses confirmed her death, we left Banfield in utter shambles, crying and sniffling. Although I knew Brenna’s pain was over, I still felt like she had passed her pain onto me. The weekend that followed was miserable, and taut with grief. Eventually, though, like any other loss one suffers, I learned to get through it and accept her death, but not a day goes by where I don’t wish she was still here with
I tried to resume the episode of Lost I was watching at home, but I was too distracted and too worried to pay deep attention to anything. Finally, after nearly an hour of waiting my mother returned clutching Brenna in her arms, eyes stained red from crying. The moment of realization hit me heavier than a hammer hits nails. It’s over. Brenna had been diagnosed with stomach cancer, an uncommon and almost rare disease that affects only older cats. She had been suffering from it for quite some time, but worst of the illness had hit her in the week before her untimely demise. As me and my siblings gave Brenna one last hug, my mom told us she had to be put down. I was in utter disbelief at this revelation, but inside I knew it was the right choice. Letting her live would only increase her pain and make her inevitable death all the more painful. I stroked Brenna’s fur one last time before my mother gave her to the veterinarians. After the nurses confirmed her death, we left Banfield in utter shambles, crying and sniffling. Although I knew Brenna’s pain was over, I still felt like she had passed her pain onto me. The weekend that followed was miserable, and taut with grief. Eventually, though, like any other loss one suffers, I learned to get through it and accept her death, but not a day goes by where I don’t wish she was still here with