On Wednesday the thirteenth, I had to make the hard decision to put down my cat, Wickett. She was twelve years old, an absolute Gremlin, and the not-person that got me through cancer treatment and outpatient mental health treatment. It was a shitty choice to have to make, but the right one.
I’m not typically one to write about myself beyond blurbs or social media statuses, but I gave a go at writing a little narrative piece of what that last day was like. If you don’t want to hear any more about pet death, go ahead and skip this. If all goes well, I’ve have some spooky vampire fiction coming to you soon.
Also, thanks to my incredibly helpful father, the hospital stay she had and her cremation wasn’t nearly as expensive as it could be. But any Kofi donations I get are going to go towards paying off that bill. The world sucks/money is tight so there aren’t expectations. But if you’re a pet parent, give the furball a hug from me, would you?
Writing After the page break
Macabress Manuscripts 