Killing my cat, Mr. Folder

Over the past week, my ten year old cat, Mr. Folder has been bleeding out during trips to the laboratory. Maybe it was the result of dry food, tap water, new litter, ghetto stress, or just plain time. Logic had dictated entertaining the idea of putting the animal down. After all, what would have Spock had done? This semi-feral feline had come to me years ago as a rescue. The prudent thought was to have limited financial liability and physical suffering immediately.

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Like Bryan Cranston’s character from Breaking Bad,  better to have had dignity marching toward death than be a shadow of a memory. In my journey, I have been fortunate to see Death deal ten people goodbye. Some by old age, some by accident, some self-abuse but, most have had a swift exit from this fragile mortality.  Of these experiences, I had never had opportunity to be cast as Dr. Kevorkian or Dr. Marcus Welby. With that end in mind, I had hit the road to work this morning. Ten fingers had been on the wheel. Ten souls I had thought. Despite a taste for bloodletting by claw, Mr. Folder has always been loyal bedside companion when ill. Like Spock, I have been split by logic and emotion. Loyalty has had emotion, no matter the odds, “Never give up, never surrender!” Without hope and action, what good had men been anyway.  For now, I have been left with another day with Mr. Folder.

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