She warmed my best blanket in the machine – the one that scared me so much when I was little but became my favourite after I found it made all the clothes so very, very warm – and wrapped it around me. Oh, it felt so good against my aching bones. She gave me some cold milk; the kind I like, rich and creamy and all I could drink. Gently she picked me up, and held me close. Sang to me, softly, and told me what a good boy I was. I think I was, mostly. I know I did bad things every once in awhile, but who doesn’t? I tried, though, and I know she loved me because I tried.
I hurt, now. I hurt all over. I lived a good life, but it’s over. It has to be. I’m not mad at her – I love her – and I’m happy she helped to end the hurting. I understand why she took me to the needle doctor. I was looking forward to it, truth be told. She held me, and cuddled me, and pet me, and stroked me, and I purred for her the way she liked, and nibbled her hand the way she liked, and told her I loved her as I got so very, very tired.
She killed me, and I loved her for it.