My cat, Garfield, hand-picked by me, has died. I don't know how. Dad found him in the garden. It's silly because he's just a cat, but I'm distraught. He's seven.
When I was born, we had three cats but I didn't choose any of them. They're all dead now, too, and that was also sad. Garfield was my first pet. We had conversations. He mewed at me, I responded, and he'd mew again. Sometimes he'd wake me up at 4 in the morning by scratching on my bedroom door and spend the rest of the morning curled up on my side. He disapproved of my smoking, as he upturned his nose every time I rolled a cigarette. When I was smoking something else, he'd mew at me until I blew smoke in his face, and then he'd purr.
Saturday morning, me and Julie were making him attack a tie that I was wriggling on the floor in front of him.
Less than a week ago, he was asleep between me and Alice in my double bed.
He's not gonna wake me up at 4 again. We're not gonna have a chat tomorrow when Alice stays over. I won't be able to wriggle a tie in front of him whilst he rolls around batting it. He's never gonna go hurtling towards Matt Dugdale's face again.
Two hours ago I was watching Thelma & Louise, nervous about my final M7 Maths exam. Now all I can think about is 7 years ago when my mum tricked me into thinking she was taking me to Tescos, when in fact she presented me with a cardboard box full of kittens and asked me to pick one out. I chose the smallest. It was Garfield. He got very hench. And then died.
I'm going to stop being melodramatic about the whole situation. My point is, I'm gonna miss that furry sack of shit alot more than I've missed an animal before. He was special. Anyone who had the privilege of meeting him knows that.
I don't like knowing he's in a cardboard computer monitor box buried under a concrete slab. And the mood on this won't change. I'm not eager.
Cheer me up. Go to this
[link]and then comment it on here. Or on facebook. Up to you.
Peace