Sneakers “The Cat” (or “That Bastard” as my mother fondly refers to him) had to be put down today. He was thirteen, which is apparently 68 in cat years. He was down to five pounds. He was sick, and it was the right thing to do. I am fully aware of the fact I’m 23 years old, but I still feel really sad. I miss the little poop bucket. It was beyond bizarre to go into my room and not find him gnawing my scarves, clawing my school books, or sleeping on my pillow.
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