Cat Cry

      You didn't cry when  your mom died.   You were too busy cleaning up the urine soaked bed sheets and covers she died in, and  making calls to find a buyer for her bed.  You didn't cry when  your dad died three years 
later because you needed to get rid of the Hoverround chair and scooter he traveled in during his last days. And go through the finances to pay back the past due medical bills.
   You didn't cry when our baby boy died after his forth bladder surgerybecause when you prayed away your sorrow, you said you heard angels singing as he entered Heaven.
   It was the passing of Mewy that got you to finally break, to allow your flood gates to open and finally release years of pent up heartbreak. That stupid, silly cat that walked on three legs, and had a glass eye.

     It took me a while to figure out why.  But when I pictured her spending night after night cuddling with you  in our bed, the care that you put in making her natural ingredient meals, and how she made you laugh when she would paw at and  chase the robot vacuum as it cleaned our floors, it made sense.
   You were the caretaker for your parents and Alex.  You were doctor, maid, and medical supplier.  But you hugged Mewy, you laughed at her antics, held her and gently kissed her silly face and imitated her purring
as she fell asleep in your arms.  When we adopted Alex, we knew his bladder issues were serious and we loved him through surgeries and catheters but it was  a different kind of love. Mewy was soft and cuddly and didn't have intense needs.  So when she finally passed of old age, there was nothing for you to do but to bury her and cry...cry..cry...
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