And another death

I was planning on going to sleep - I was up most of the night - but I have to get this out first, because it's all just too much. This is gonna be some stream-of-consciousness stuff, so please forego any temptation to judge any spelling or grammatical errors. While you're at it, resist the temptation to judge my attitude, although I frankly don't really care if you like my attitude, so on second thought, go for it:

This is Prowler, AKA Prowler Douglas Allen, AKA Marshal Prowler.

When Doug and I started dating, Prowler was 15 years old. He was a BIG boy, weighing in at 15 lbs. He was affectionate (in that he wanted to be petted all the time), and yet cranky (he'd scratch you if you stopped petting him). He earned the nickname "Marshal Prowler" because he patrolled the perimeter of the house each evening, loudly warning away any stray cats that might approach the front or back door.

Prowler could also speak, something that Doug insisted was true, but which I doubted. Until late one night when we'd been dating a few months, and I heard someone talking downstairs. I thought Doug was being robbed until I realized the "intruder" was saying, "HELLO! PROWLER!" In later years, Prowler added "NOW!" to his vocabulary, usually at mealtime.

Over the past year and a bit, Prowler had been losing weight, as happens with elderly cats. By late last summer, that escalated, and Prowler was diagnosed with pancreatitis, for which he took several medications daily.

Last week, Prowler took to climbing into my lap. This was not typical behavior for him: Prowler was affectionate, but not a lap kitty. So I knew his time here was drawing to a close. Yesterday, Prowler stopped eating and drinking.

And so, this morning, I took my beautiful boy - the one pet who hasn't left my side since Doug died; my crochety 19-year-old man - to the vet, where I set him free of the body that was failing him.

I'm alternating between crying hysterically and screaming in fury. I posted about this in one the grief groups to which I belong on Facebook - groups where we talk ALL THE TIME about the importance of not saying foolish platitudes and just letting folks sit in their grief. And do you know what I got? Mostly good stuff, but also plenty of "at least he's with Doug now" and "he's not hurting anymore" AND DO YOU PEOPLE REALLY THINK THAT FUCKING HELPS?

I am so over it. Even just hearing "I'm sorry" grates, because - even though I know people mean it - the fact is that it's something people say and then they go on with their lives.

I AM FUCKING SICK TO DEATH OF THE FACT THAT EVERYONE ELSE GETS TO GO ON WITH THEIR LIVES WHEN I DON'T FUCKING HAVE ONE ANYMORE AND I'M POWERLESS TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. 

HOW MUCH MORE DO I HAVE TO SUFFER?

At this moment, I hate everyone. I hate everything. Westley in The Princess Bride was right: life IS pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

And I'm fucking OVER it.