When I was little, my mother told me that the death of pets gets us ready for the death of humans.Of course, this does nothing to comfort you if you're bawling your eyes out because your kitten just died. I was. The particular tragic kitten death to which i'm referring did not, in fact, take place when I was five years old. It wasn't when I was seven, or ten. No, this particular death took place earlier this year.
I know I know, i'm eighteen; I shouldn't have been that upset about a kitten. I cried more over the body of Smoothie Jo (the kitten in question), than I did when my Great Aunt Barb died. Something's wrong with this picture.
I have a theory about it.
I can't be certain that any of this is true, as I don't always know my own motivation for things. Sometimes my brain makes decisions without me. Anyway though, I think maybe it made me so sad because of the innocence. Smoothie Jo was just a kitten. A tiny little adorable fuzzball who liked to sleep in my fedora. She never hurt anybody. She never even crapped on the floor, but went dutifully in the litter box, even though she was so small that she had a hard time getting in and out of it. And she wasn't spared.
Perhaps I felt that if God couldn't find the time to save one innocent kitten, what hope was there for the rest of us? For me?
Which may be the reason I was sitting on my floor questioning all of life and purposes and all of that.
Or maybe I was just sleep deprived.
Who can tell?
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