Jared woke me up Sunday morning, "Chucky is dead, will you make sure Ryan doesn't poke him anymore?"
Chucky was lying down in one of his favorite hiding places, under the coffee table.
Our cat was just three human-years old. He was not sick and he was acting normal.
Chucky was my favorite pet ever. He was so nice and friendly. He was quiet and always hung out in the same room I was in. He only took a dump outside of his litter box once in his entire life.
We have no idea why or how he died, it sucks. Everyone knows that pets die, but it's nice to have some sort of explanation.
After some online research it sounds like it was probably due to heart defects.
Nobody wants to wake up to dead animals on their living room. Nobody.
We buried him in the ravine next to our house.
Now who is going to photo bomb every picture I take?
Who will all the little kids torture when they come to my house?
Who will bite Cry in Ryan in the head?
Who can I hog tie and shave?
I don't know how I'm going to sleep without Chucky trying to sit on my face.
The next time I drink a bottle of tequila, I am definitely pouring some to the ground for my fallen homey.
I'm sad.
