Sunday evening, I learned Todd, my cat, died. My grandmother couldn’t will herself to tell me, which I’m not too pleased about, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. I considered asking earlier, but I was scared. What upsets me most, though, is that I thought he was alive this whole time since I visited him in the days before the GFAF Expo this year. Because I thought he was alive, I have been praying for him every time I prayed for food/in general, in addition to every time I thought about him.

I feel deceived and betrayed because Todd was literally my child, but that’s not what this post is about.

He lived on Mimi’s new farm, because I couldn’t bring him to suburbia with me since Grandmama’s not too big on house pets. Deep down, I was more depressed over this in the beginning, but I soon accepted the fact that he was raised on a farm and would have missed the ability to roam around as he pleased, the hustle and bustle of the farm, and playing with the many bugs and amphibians that just…accidentally become dead after he sinks a paw into it.

So I tried to visit as frequently as I could, both physically and mentally, because he was my baby. I adopted Todd, the runt, during 2010, the beginning of a dark time in my life. I saw him every single day until I moved out in 2012, one of my darkest years. There was a long period of time during those years that I was like, “I have to stay alive, because who would feed Todd? Who would change his litter box? And someone would decide to cut off his tail. I can’t kill myself. I just…have to try to push through and hope I’ll escape everything one day.”

He was my rock, and he had to be put down the 14th of September, 2016 due to his inability to walk. Through my research, I found many of his symptoms fitting in with chronic kidney disease and/or hyperthyroidism, though cancer sticks out more now. The vet ran tests and tests, and even gave him antibiotics, but nothing worked. Todd was a full-fledged druggie in his later days; Mimi wanted to make sure he wasn’t in pain.

On the old farm, there were the dogs, Hank and Annie, neither of whom he cared for. There were horses that could squish him in one step. There were coyotes and wolves and foxes in the woods at night, and then sometimes in the daytime during the winter, looking for food, or during the hot Texas heat, looking for a trough full of water.

But he climbed up high and stood proud, and he literally ruled the farm. The predators had nothing on him.

I wasn’t hoping for it, but…I had a feeling my visit with him a few weeks ago would probably be the last. I already said I would be okay with him being put down. I didn’t want him to be in pain and having to push through life for my own selfishness/selfish gain, because I loved him too much. He didn’t deserve to have to continue living miserably. He was weak and fragile and frail, and I loved on him and made peace with the fact that that visit might be my last with him.

Some more pictures I have of Todd. I don’t have a lot of high-quality ones because the originals are on my hard drive. :s

Rest in peace, you sweet, adventurous, dark grey domestic short-haired tabby. ❤️

January 2010—September 14, 2016

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