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  • Fleeting love is the hardest love. The love that comes into your life, wraps around your body, sinks into the pit of your abdomen, and then abruptly exits. Poof. Love like a magic trick.

    Snoop came into our life just a year ago. A talkative and handsome Siamese snowshoe, he climbed in boxes, sniffed catnip, chased feather toys, ran the stairs and said "Good morning, now feed me." He wasn't snuggly at first--testing the waters to see if we were really going to be his home after being given to a shelter once--but with time and attention, he grew to find comfort curled in the space between my knees.

    Somehow, in a flash, he got so sick he stopped eating, stopped drinking, stopped talking. In three days time he was barely moving. My roommate was out of town, he is hers technically, and my text updates were all I could do other than keep his water bowl fresh and his body comfortable. He was hiding like cats do when they aren't feeling well, throwing up even at the smell of food.

    In a whirlwind of "how did this happen" and "what could I have done" thoughts, we took him to the ER kitty vet last night. Their words blurred together. "Blood transfusion" and "bruised along the abdomen" and "pancreatic and liver failure."

    Failure. Failure. Failure. That was all I heard.

    I have privately been working on being kinder to myself. Less guilt. Less self-blame. More self-love. It has made the year a happier one than I have ever have, letting go of some of the pain we all create for ourselves. But this one is hard. I wish there was something more I could have done.

    I will miss you, sweet buddy. Little man in a box. You were only here for a year. I thought you would be a part of my life for so much longer. But the love you shared will still wrap around me, even on the cold nights, when my knees miss you and your soft fur is not there.

    Hope you keep telling wild stories in the place where you have gone.
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