My ex called in a panic, telling me her favorite cat is dying; won’t eat –at least very little, cold to the bone, shivering even crawled up against in the bed at night. With her car in the shop, she doesn’t have the case she needs to seek out a vet, who always wants to test and test until they test the pet to death, This being Christmas Eve, when not vet will be available to see her pet. She doesn’t want to put the cat down, though we both know she will have to, she calling me because I’ve done all this before, making me recall those favorite cats I held until the needle did it bit and the purr turned to silence, Tiny Tug (my absolute favorite) passing away in my hands with no amount of love or caring or cash to keep it with me, and now, she – my ex—brings it all back in time for Christmas, as if I’ve lived a bad life and gets this lump of coal I must accept on this Holy Night, on this night when there is no room in the inn, not even for a dying cat
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