It's Better to Know

Hubby was outside washing the truck, I was watching Hell's Kitchen on T.V. The door opened and it was Brandon and I could hear hubby outside, "come outside, you need to come outside now".

At the edge of the driveway stood hubby, with a shovel, with a huge black ball of fur, with little white tufts poking out of it's curled body. It was Sylvester.

The neighbour came over and said there was a horrid smell coming from behind their storage shed. It was him. Not broken, not chewed, not ripped apart and bleeding. He was curled up, silent. Hubby said his neck seemed loose when he shoveled him up, but he didn't want to look anymore. I asked were his eyes open, shut. He didn't know. The smell was overpowering.

We buried him topside the creek nearby, near the huge tree that gives lots of shade and protection from the sun, and the coyotes. In the Fall the tree will shed it's leaves on him, covering him over and over again as each season will pass, until he is turned into dark, rich soil, feeding the plant life and sustaining the salmon creek below. He would have liked that.

He was 17 years old. He was my cat. And I loved him.