Day 52: Breathing

she's breathing, but slow. seizers have stopped, but every few minutes she kicks her back legs feebly and her front legs grab unto my arm, leaving welts and blood streaks. these weak kicks are her last ditch efforts to stand, or she is
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running next to me, as i run, she runs. it's not quite a race, but my six year-old mind defines it as so. whoever can reach the sign post reading candor will be the winner, and i know she'll beat me. she has every time we have run this short marathon, my breath coming is great whooping gasps, her legs kicking like some small race horse. 


the street's end is coming, she is starting to dart just a tad bit ahead and i know
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that this is just a deathwatch. the tears are coming down my face, and i cannot stop thinking to myself that this will be the last time i am able to be with her. dieing or not, i hear her purring, purring.

weakly, but i think the purrs are a sign that she is somewhat comforted. that maybe she feels my presence in whatever state her mind is in.

i sniffle, it feels as if this watch as gone on and on, and i keep thinking
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of birds. lizards. sometimes mice. she brings them in and my brother and i always marvel at the fact that these gifts that she brings to us are usually still living. they show signs of struggle, bite marks, sometimes scratches along their flanks. 


my mom, my dad, ronnie; they always end up shooing the weak animal out of the back sliding door, but i always marvel
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at how long she is holding on to life. no one is sure whether or not she has sunk into some sort of coma yet, her breath is weak, and she has lain in a single position throughout the night. crying out once, but otherwise quiet.

unmoving.

just breathing.

and i keep thinking, worrying, if in the depths of her mind and body she is thirsty. hungry? i keep asking myself this and the
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tears come, buck had just died and i am sitting outside crying. 15, and my cat had just died, but sin comes to me, sits on my lap.


purring, trying to cheer me up. trying to catch the tears as the fall from my wet face and unto
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her fur is so matted. she hasn't been able to groom herself in weeks, not well in months. my mom is holding her, and i know these minutes are her last.

she is breathing harder now after so long of breathing so slowly, so weakly. she is trying to hold onto life. trying to stall what is inevitable. she breaths, and i see her eyes, blind now, widen impossibly

and i know, know that her
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breathing hard, i see her jump upon the wall. carrying a bird, or a mouse, or a something in her mouth. this one isn't a gift, i know. i look at her striding across the wall, slowly, almost preening. proud, a showoff with something to show.


hunting is what she is good at, and not all her captures have to be a
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gift to us, she was, is, a gift to us.

goodbye sin.