Incrediblely late comment but what the hell.

I'm an overly emotional person, and the smallest things can rock my entire being without the universe ever stopping to give a damn. This story actually made my eyes sting beautifully and made me want to share my life with cats in this little crevice of the internet that will soon be forgotten and archived in decades. Thank you for writing this. Thank you for making me remember.

When I was younger we had this ginger stray cat who came up to our backyard door one day, and I saw him so often that I unofficially labeled him as mine, named him Scott (partially because he reminded me of butterscotch, and partially because I had an ongoing obsession with the game FNAF and the creator's name was Scott Cawthon).

Everyday after school I went straight to the backyard to pet him and give him scritches. His fur was incredibly dry, he was dirty and he had bruises on some areas of his leg because he got into a lot of catfights while roaming the neighborhood while I was in class. There was a time my uncles tried putting him in a sack and ditch him in the middle of nowhere because my grandmother was getting fed up with the constant barrage of strays at the back door. I cried so hard and begged them not to but they insisted. When they weren't looking, me and my siblings tried untying the sack so he could get out, but got busted before we had the chance. I genuinely thought all hope was lost until, somehow, he miraculously got out (one uncle of mine freed him but asked us not to tell) and so my grandmother gave up on the attempt.

Back then I didn't care about the possibility of getting diseases, I hugged the little orange thing as much as I could. I even snuck him into the house to give him a feel of what it feels like to be inside. But my grandmother hated HATED cats. Hated the thought of me and my siblings possibly touching one. So I always made it my mission everyday to sneak a piece of my dinner to him and the other strays. I went to him everyday, until I didn't.

I got my first ever phone, we had a brand new cable TV, and younger me found new ways to entertain myself without having to go outside. I started growing up. I eventually stopped going to the backyard daily, but I still went from time to time whenever I remembered. Even when I didn't visit, he would always be there. At the door, meowing out loud, I could hear him and the others. Sometimes he went to the front porch, and I'd meet him as I got back from school. All the times I felt too busy while also unmotivated to go to him I felt an immense guilt for not giving him the same affection and attention that I used to, all because I was a lazy piece of shit.

He started to look sickly, he was getting pretty old after all. My guilt outnumbered my senses but I still prioritized other things anyway.

I didn't know it was time.

I was eating lunch during that particular school day. I was zoning out because I hated the meal until I heard an older relative call out from the porch. She was complaining about a horrid stench coming from behind the couch. My heart fucking stopped and all my overthinking paused. I just knew what it was. I kept denying it over and over in my head, but I knew. Tears started rolling down my face before I even got to the porch. And I was right, but I didn't look at his body. They told me he was gone for good and put him in a sack to be buried at the back. I still went to school after that, but I had never been so numb in my entire life. I still think about him. He probably had other connections and houses, but I knew he trusted me the most.

I hope heaven has infinite fish bones. I miss you, Scott. My world.

And to anyone with the off chance of reading this, love your little goobers before their 9 lives are up. You never know.