Guava Francine Roundhead, 1992–2006

We ran over our cat last night, and she died.

She was fourteen (or so). Lately she’d lost a step and was having problems jumping to chair level. I noticed her limping a little. And she had begun cutting her run into the garage as we pulled in closer and closer. We’ve been commenting about it over the past few weeks. Then last night, there she was, running in, as the whole family returned from a trip. We saw her. I said, “It’s almost like she has a death wish.” Wes pulled in very, very slowly. And she cut back in front of the car.

Don’t worry, there’s no graphic story to tell, no blood, not much drama. She ran and hid, but we lifted her out gently and got her into her carrier. We thought we’d clipped a foot or her tail, but when Wes got her to the emergency vet, only 20 minutes after the run-in, it turned out she was bleeding internally: the end.

We’ve spent all night wondering why she did it. She knew to stay away from cars. She regularly got out of the way as we slowly pulled in. Now we feel complicit in a kitty assisted suicide.

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