I still remember my first pet death. It was a fish. I was 15. It didn’t last over night. When I woke up in the morning it was floating at the top of the bowel I had transferred it to the night before. I cried. I know, lame, but I couldn’t even keep a fish. I didn’t want to flush it down the toilet, it had a name, nothing with a name should be flushed down the toilet.
We got two free kittens to fight off the mice (another kill to our roster). This cute little face it one of them. Jack we named him. We had him a week. He died, poor thing.
Monkey #4 was not the softest when playing with this kitty, he hasn’t even had a kitten before and this one was his favorite, so he pretty much got mauled, a lot. He came up to the house and said that the cat was dead. It was laying in his arms not moving. After a second the cat did wake up and was twitching pretty bad and couldn’t hold its head up to eat. We thought, if given time, he might pull through, but was played to much with cousins and a few nights ago, he was pretty much gone, limp, eyes dilated, we figured he had brain damage and wouldn’t make it. That night he died. We buried it in our side yard. Number two and three monkey’s were in tears. Luckily there was one sister left in the bunch and we were able to get her.
Monkey #4 learned his lesson, he kept asking for Jack and we told him why he couldn’t play with him anymore and the reasons why we need to be soft with kitty’s. He felt really bad. I am sure my monkey’s will remember this for the rest of their life, just like I did with my fish.