AROO, A NEW ARC (PART 8)

I sit alone, unsure of what I am ordering, my face, an illustration of certitude and fear.

I listen to Susan and Mattie (in the next room) gently lift Aroo onto a pillowcase and lower him to the bottom of a topless cat carrying case.

I hear Aroo whimper.

"WAIT. What's happening? Stop!"

"No" Mattie says, "It's okay. We got him. He's okay."

Susan and Mattie bring Aroo to me like they're handing a newborn to its mother.

And when Aroo is my lap, it's just terrible. He can't lift his head. His eyes are open but register nothing.
This is not the cat I know. This is a prop, an approximation.  He looks half-dead.

"Well, he's gone" I say accusingly "I mean, he looks terrible!" - and I say this like Susan and Mattie are to blame.  (Have they been in complete denial under that bed?)

I massage Aroo under his furry chin. He's alive but clearly gone. I feel abandoned to my own health disaster.

"Aroo. Aroo!!"

The cat who lived purely for (affection and play) has been killed, by what exactly?
What is he fighting? (What am I fighting)?

Aroo is in my lap and Susan and Mattie flank me. I am the central figure in a medieval religious panel.

Aroo makes three or four little coughs. "He's still breathing" I say. But Susan adds, "I think this is it. I think he's going right now" and she says it with just a tinge of opportunity of how lucky we are that he's going NOW (and she's right).

"He's gone".