So my cat was put down last Thursday, he had been sick for a while.
I don't expect anyone to actually care, but I feel like typing.
He was only a year younger than me, pretty old for a cat. My sister and I had always been 'his people', no one else in the house ever really let him onto their beds or sleep in their floors. And my grandpa prefers his cat, a black one with a single eye (I shit you not!)
His name was Arthur, and we had gotten him somewhere in the souther-center-y part of America, I think. We almost lost him in Florida, when we drove 50 miles to another campground. We had to leave and couldn't find him, but dad was going to drive back later and look. But when we got to the other campground, we found him under the trailer, clinging to the septic tank. I' sure he used up six lives on that journey, and he still lived 13 years past that, so he had a good long life. I'm still not quite sure what I think of his death, Ive never really been one to miss the dead, I just regret not being nicer to them (regardless of how nice I've been, I just tend to regret not doing everything in my power to make them happy). Arthur had diabetes, and last year we found out he wouldn't live past two more years. I guess I wish he ahd stayed longer, but he was pretty sick.
I still can't quite get used to the idea that our cats will never fight again, or that I'll never have to carry him downstairs for dinner.

On a happier note, I'm off for break. Go ahead and request some stuff, I've got free time and I'm always bored over break.