Pynchon

There is no easy way to write this.

Moon The Cat is gone. We were forced to put him to sleep earlier this evening.

I don't want to write and write. Lorraine knows that I am putting this on the blog now. I have promised to be as quick as I can. She is in a world of pain and so am I. The last time I cried as much was when my Dog died in 1995. I knew it was coming, but didn't think I would cry at all. Big tough man.

So, quickly.

Last week, while Lorraine was off work ill, Moon had a fit. Lorraine rubbed honey into Moon's gums and fed him tuna. Moon recovered. Lorraine spoke to the Vet and arranged an appointment for today.

On Wednesday this week Moon had another fit. I came in from work to find him on the kitchen floor unable to move and lying in a pool of his own piss. I was fucking furious and shouted and screamed and I fed him, bathed him and cleaned up the kitchen. The next two days he spent mostly on the big settee in the kitchen. Normal sketch. No energy, not able to walk in a straight line, using the litter tray , but most of the time missing the target.

We took him to the Vet today. We were given a choice. More treatment, possibly leading nowhere, or a painless injection. The Vet went away for an eternity. Lorraine and I cried. We held each other. The Vet came back. You know what we chose.

The needle had a bright blue fluid in it. It was a really pretty blue. The Vet shaved part of Moon's leg and injected him. Moon was a cool boy. He didn't respond. He tasted something, looked at me and stuck his tongue out. His looked puzzled and then he went away. 5 seconds at most.

The Vet left us with him and we cried some more. Then Moon pissed all over the table. Good boy. His final "fuck you!" to the world. It was funny and I laughed. Horrible, vile cat.

Too many fucking words. Words are no good to me.

I need to stop now. I'll be back soon.

His name was Ben. He was loved.