Damn, Damn, Damn, Damn, Damn!

 I've grown accustomed to his face. His meows, his yowls, his ups, his downs. They're second nature to me now. Like letting him out and letting him in. And outside again, and inside again, and out, and in. I'm very lucky he's a kitten, and so easy to forget. Very much like a habit one can always break, and yet, I've grown accustomed to his fuzzy little face.

I sent my cat to the hospital, and I feel like I suck at life. He got into it with another neighborhood cat, and the scratch on his back I saw Friday night has exponentially worsened. So this morning when I was chasing him around the kitchen to put him in his carrier and take him to the vet, we were in a standoff. I saw him look at the open door leading to the hallway, and we both leapt for it. I slammed the door shut to prevent his escape, and he slipped through. Almost. A white and orange puff of tail in the corner of the closed door was evidence of my horrible judgement. When I opened the door and saw blood on the puff, I found him, Feisty, under the claw foot bathtub, with a lack of tail fur and exposed tail bone. 

I'm a bad mom. His bite on his back would cost less than $100 at the vet, but my asinine negligence would more than triple the bill. I'm such a bad cat mom. I feel awful. He's staying overnight at the vet and I miss him so much. I injured my own pet. The animal I am in charge of, his well being and his health I was in charge of and I failed. He'll be ok, I am told, but I might not be.