Just Another Sunday Day
Just Another Sunday Day
Just another Sunday day
The sun was bright through the curtained windows on a warm February afternoon. My room was filled with calming white noise and the pillows were soft against my face.
And suddenly silence breaks with a thumbing up the stairs. My sister with bad news—my morning spoiled. She goes outside to search for our long lived, long loved, old cat Nacoura, Nakoo. I lay there with the news. Worrying thoughts, curious wonders flood my mind. I was too awake to go to back sleep. I slip out of my bed, still warm from my covers, still in my pajamas. I slip on my black shoes without socks and join my sister in her search. Nothing. I clean up for the day, put on some day clothes while a ring comes from the phone. I make my way downstairs and listen to the message on the machine. My sister found the cat. I go outside to see her still in the garage. Our cat, Nakoo, sitting in the dark under the green tiller. The garage is cold, the cat still and in pain.
The story was a man from the trailer park shot her in the back with a BB gun while standing in some other owner’s yard and shooting into someone else’s property—the house beside ours. She dragged herself home—to the place she grew up. The place she knew was safe. The place she knew she was always welcome.
Later we find out she’s not going to make it. Even though she was shot in the back side her leg became completely useless. Dragging herself to escape the excitement she was not used to, to be outside again. The man of the house comes home. A job has to be done.
In our hearts knowing she only had minutes to live I was glad at least she did not know—we took her for the long walk, a ride to the country. Her first car ride, her last car ride. The car stops. Her excitement peaks. Scared now, something she wasn’t used to, a place she had never been.
Behind a barn, my sister and I stand, and my dad with a gun in his hand. “I hate to do this.” He said. A good cat, a mouser, a hunter, a mother it was hard to waste such a good, previously healthy cat. She peaks her head above the box, wondering what’s going on. We pet her goodbye. My sister and I turn out heads. I plug my ears. POP. She’s gone. I turn around to see her brain’s last reaction her life force slip away. I turn around again. I thought I was going to be okay, I would be strong this time. Nakoo and I weren’t very close. But I cared for her. She was still ours, still our pet. I felt my heart freeze, like a knot in my chest. As soon as I knew she was gone, her life no longer living I felt this sadness. Tears threatened to fall from my eyes. I kept them back. I tried to say something, but I bit my tong. Not yet, it was too hard.
She didn’t need to die and the way she went out was tragic. None of us were happy about it. It was a quiet ride home. I looked to see my dad’s expression. Mad, upset. He did hate doing in such a previously wonderful cat. We had to finish the dirty work the man in the trailer park started. My sister dug the hole, I laid her in—her body was still warm and flexible. Once she was settled in good, I pet her head, as if she knew I would miss her. I stood up and watched as the dirt covered the body we knew. It was just another Sunday, now today marks the end of a good cat’s life.
The sun was bright through the curtained windows on a warm February afternoon. My room was filled with calming white noise and the pillows were soft against my face.
And suddenly silence breaks with a thumbing up the stairs. My sister with bad news—my morning spoiled. She goes outside to search for our long lived, long loved, old cat Nacoura, Nakoo. I lay there with the news. Worrying thoughts, curious wonders flood my mind. I was too awake to go to back sleep. I slip out of my bed, still warm from my covers, still in my pajamas. I slip on my black shoes without socks and join my sister in her search. Nothing. I clean up for the day, put on some day clothes while a ring comes from the phone. I make my way downstairs and listen to the message on the machine. My sister found the cat. I go outside to see her still in the garage. Our cat, Nakoo, sitting in the dark under the green tiller. The garage is cold, the cat still and in pain.
The story was a man from the trailer park shot her in the back with a BB gun while standing in some other owner’s yard and shooting into someone else’s property—the house beside ours. She dragged herself home—to the place she grew up. The place she knew was safe. The place she knew she was always welcome.
Later we find out she’s not going to make it. Even though she was shot in the back side her leg became completely useless. Dragging herself to escape the excitement she was not used to, to be outside again. The man of the house comes home. A job has to be done.
In our hearts knowing she only had minutes to live I was glad at least she did not know—we took her for the long walk, a ride to the country. Her first car ride, her last car ride. The car stops. Her excitement peaks. Scared now, something she wasn’t used to, a place she had never been.
Behind a barn, my sister and I stand, and my dad with a gun in his hand. “I hate to do this.” He said. A good cat, a mouser, a hunter, a mother it was hard to waste such a good, previously healthy cat. She peaks her head above the box, wondering what’s going on. We pet her goodbye. My sister and I turn out heads. I plug my ears. POP. She’s gone. I turn around to see her brain’s last reaction her life force slip away. I turn around again. I thought I was going to be okay, I would be strong this time. Nakoo and I weren’t very close. But I cared for her. She was still ours, still our pet. I felt my heart freeze, like a knot in my chest. As soon as I knew she was gone, her life no longer living I felt this sadness. Tears threatened to fall from my eyes. I kept them back. I tried to say something, but I bit my tong. Not yet, it was too hard.
She didn’t need to die and the way she went out was tragic. None of us were happy about it. It was a quiet ride home. I looked to see my dad’s expression. Mad, upset. He did hate doing in such a previously wonderful cat. We had to finish the dirty work the man in the trailer park started. My sister dug the hole, I laid her in—her body was still warm and flexible. Once she was settled in good, I pet her head, as if she knew I would miss her. I stood up and watched as the dirt covered the body we knew. It was just another Sunday, now today marks the end of a good cat’s life.