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The night before kitty died, I found her in her pen in bad shape. I knew the end was near, so I plucked her up and gave her a nice warm bath, wrapped her in a fluffy towel still warm from the dryer, and carried her around like a baby.
We generally eat dinner in the livingroom (horrible habit, I know, but a habit nonetheless) and I put her on the couch between us so she could be part of the family one last time.
She was so precious and weak. Her nose twitched when she smelled dinner, so I put a small spot of gravy on my left index finger for her to lick off. I misjudged her weakness and she misjudged my gift, clamping down on my finger in a frenzy of chomping.
Her canine went nearly through my index finger. When I was able to get her loose my husband bundled me off to the bathroom to fix me up. We returned to dinner and treated her as though nothing had happened.
I steadfastly refused to go to the doctor, so the next few days were this: me constantly picking, poking, squeezing and cleaning my wound. I doused it in alcohol, I drained it, I bandaged it. I rebandaged it.
Yesterday afternoon I did a thorough cleaning (I’ll spare you the gory details) and when I was finished all that was left of a nasty wound was a pinkened raw area on my fingertip and a slight divot.
Today the wound is even less. I predict by Friday it will be a mere memory. I can use it for typing already, even now.
This was by far the worst wound she ever inflicted upon me. It was painful and it throbbed and got infected, and it made it hard to type. It’s also the last wound she would ever inflict upon me, save for my broken heart.
In just a few days all of the wounds will be internal. Time will heal those, too, I suppose.