“We gather here today to bury our deceased cat Snowball. She lived a long, joyful 17 years. Not only was she a wonderful family pet, she was our baby. Today we’re gathered to say our final goodbye,” said my mother. She’s the town’s animal mortician, which is actually a very profitable business. Unfortunately, today isn’t just any other cat funeral. It’s Snowball’s funeral. Our family cat’s funeral. Snowball lived a great life and today, it’s our job to celebrate it. I made a pact with myself that I would not cry. As my mom says, funerals are about life, not death, as death only takes a second, but life takes years.
So here I sit with my parents getting ready to bury her. Snowball always made better company than humans. She had this sixth sense; whenever I became upset, she would find me. It was like magic. There was this one Autumn
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Waking up with her presents on the front door. Presents consisting of decapitated bloody mice. One time she left the tail too. Or when I was a genius of a five-year-old, and decided to pet her with my foot. She bit me. Or Sunday afternoons, when I took my hair ribbons out, and played with Snowball. One ribbon was for me, one for my dad and both to taunt Snowball with. I’d snake it around her body and lift it into the air as she leaped and swiped at it. She’d paw it, bite it and chase it as I ran around the house and dragged it behind me. Cat toys have nothing on a good ribbon.
But now I sit here, reminiscing about my love for her. I sit here knowing that love isn’t something that stops; knowing that my love for Snowball will live on even though she didn’t. The beads of salty water running down my cheeks mean, my pact has been broken. They unfortunately are not sweat; they are gross ugly tears, that cascade down my face. They are a sign of how much I miss her. A sign of how much I wish she wasn’t a star in the sky; how much I just want to cuddle with my sweet ball of