#i wish i could convince myself that.... nevermind. i just had to vent and cry over another beautiful thing that i'm losing

[supercasey]

Here's me venting because I've lost control of my life and I'm scared of death

[WARNINGS FOR ANIMAL DEATH MENTIONS AND WHAT COULD BE CONSIDERED CHILD ABUSE]

I had a cat once. She was my best friend. Her name was Socks (because I was bad at naming things) because my grandparents already had a cat named Boots (named after a dead dog I never met).

I miss my cat. Like I said, she was my bestest friend, but I didn't own her. She was a stray, so that made her Bad according to everyone else. I loved that fucking cat though- she was the reason I got up in the morning. Because if I went to school, then I'd get to see my kitty, and that alone was worth going through middle school.

Near the end of 8th grade, it was over. My grandad got sick of buying extra cat food for this fucking cat, so she had to get off the street. At first I was excited- I could finally ask Dad if I could bring her home! But I was ignored, and even scolded, for suggesting such a thing.

"Leeloo doesn't get along with other pets! It wouldn't work!"

Nevermind that she was fine with Simba and Moira. Nevermind that the cat that convinced you that Leeloo couldn't handle other pets was an unfixed tom that was constantly trying to mount her. Nevermind that Socks is a timid, female cat.

"Well, she's dirty! And feral! She'd scratch us up during a bath, and she might get violent with Leeloo or Moira!"

Socks isn't violent- she's shy and small. And fuck, I would've bathed her myself if I had to.

Nothing worked; no one listened to me. And the more I argued, the angrier my father got. I tried to get my siblings on my side, but for the first time in my life, they left me on my own. They didn't understand why I loved this cat so much, and frankly, they weren't about to risk their hides for my stupid ass.

I tried convincing my grandparents to take her in. After all, they only had one pet, and it wouldn't be too big of a deal to take in one more. But again, I was met with an angry "NO!" from my grandfather.

Two weeks later, Gramps caught Socks. He drove her to what he swore was a no kill shelter while I was at school to "save me the trouble". Reportedly, she pissed herself in the car and yowled the whole way there.

A few months after my grandfather died, my older brother told me that it wasn't a no kill shelter. That she probably died. I don't know why he told me that- maybe to make me hate my grandfather, maybe to let me know the truth- but either way, I wish I had never known.

Was she scared when they put her down? Probably. Probably was wondering where I was. I promised her the day before that I'd come get her. That I'd convince my dad to let me save her. But I never came. I never got her. She died waiting for me.

I think about her sometimes. When I see pinecones, I think of her. (I didn't have any toys for her, so I'd throw pinecones against the pavement to make them bounce, and she'd run after them. She'd carry them back to me in her little mouth, purring so loud). I miss her so much.

I'm never gonna have a cat like her again. No one understood the bond I had with her. She made me not commit suicide. She made me want to live. After she died, I didn't want to live anymore. I closed myself off. I learned to be alone, because the people who love me didn't know me enough to realize that I needed her.

She was so scared, and I couldn't save her. I didn't save her.

As a kid, my parents always told me that our dead pets would be waiting for us at the Rainbow Bridge after they died. They'd play there with other dead pets, waiting for their owners to come get them. Will she be there? Is she there right now, waiting for me? Did she count as my pet, or is she somewhere else? Will I ever see her again? I want her back so badly. She was another part of me, and she was ripped away without a second thought.

Maybe I'm being selfish, for forming attachments and wanting to keep her, but I honestly could care less at this point. It's been six years, and even now I'm aware that it was bullshit to get rid of her. We could've compromised. We could've figured it out. Instead, the adults in my life told me to get over it, and that they had more important things to worry about. And even if we really couldn't keep her, the LEAST they could've done was let me come with them to the shelter. The least they could've done was let me hold her when they put her down. The least they could've done was let me say goodbye.

Well fuck 'em all, I miss my goddamn cat. I miss Socks. And I'm never going to see her again.

((I don't expect anyone to have read this far. I especially don't expect anyone to care. I'm just crying about my dead cat at 5AM because my depression is killing me and I'm scared I'm gonna die before I get out of here))