Yeah, I can’t read this book. I tried and I am about half way through the book, but I seriously don’t think I can read the end. I know the cat dies and you would think that would be the reason. It isn’t thought.

 

I started crying when Vicki fished the cat out of the night depository box. I was crying as I was reading about the little girl who only spoke when Dewey came to sit on her wheel chair. The tears kept coming as I was reading how the cat just jumps from lap to lap saying “hello” to everyone in the library. It’s pathetic. I read how the cat was eating rubber bands and puking them up and I cry. Oh look, a chapter on Dewey’s first birthday…tears. Dewey left some non-parelles in a litter box and I am crying turning the pages. How am I possibly not going to cry when I read about his death at the end of the book?

 

I can’t even watch the show Dogtown. They rescue a dog and I am bawling my eyes out.  If the dog has one of those cones on its head or looses a limb just forget about it because I will be inconsolable for weeks! I cry so hard I can’t even breathe.

 

I wasn’t always like this. As a kid, sure, I cried when Lassie got hurt. I wasn’t allowed to watch those movies because I would just cry and no amount of hugs, kisses, or “it’s just a movie” would get me to stop. But as I got older, I was able to handle it. I would sometimes even laugh at the ridiculousness of movies about animals getting hurt or dying.

 

But now, I can’t do it. I am crying more now then when I was little. I don’t know what happened to make me revert back, but it is truly mind-boggling.

 

So, I don’t think I can finish this book about Dewey. I want to because I think it is cool how an animal can ask for nothing and give so much to people. I used to love going into Book Trader because they had this big old smoky gray cat that I would pet every time I went in there. Sure, I was like Elvira and the cat would run from me knowing I just wanted to cuddle it, but I still found its hiding place and rubbed behind its ears. Even my own cat Phoebe knows when I am looking to mush her face with kisses and hug her until her eyes pop out. She disappears for a bit and then ten seconds later, I will turn around and she will be staring at me like “Oh alright, if you must.”

 

I know the impact an animal can have in a human’s life. I grew up with animals my whole life. Phoebe is the only animal I can say is truly mine. She is like me in every way. She hates new people and it takes her a while to warm up to someone. Phoebe always knows when I am sad and she insists on sitting right up at my chest until my chest stops its spasms. No matter what room I am in, I will turn around and she will be sitting in the same room with me. We play hide-and-seek. Sometimes if I am gone too long, my blanket or clothes will be by the front door (I think this is her way of telling me to just leave then). Phoebe is my reading partner.

 

I think maybe that is the reason I am so sensitive to animals now. Phoebe is not terribly old, but she isn’t a kitten anymore. I never want to see her in pain, but I know that some day she will be and there won’t be much I can do for her. Maybe my tears come now because there will be a time later on I won’t be able to enjoy a cry-fest. I will need to act and my actions won’t have time to be cloudy from tears.

 

I can’t finish this book because I live this book. Phoebe is my Dewey and I am not prepared to let her go just yet. If I read about Dewey’s death, it will be like I am reading about Phoebe’s. I don’t have time for that. I have to go play hide-and-seek and read another book.

  

 

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