One of my cats was hit and killed by a car this evening. I called him Spotty. He was about ten months old. He was crossing the street between my house and the home of the cat lady across the street.
He was tame, I guess, but not especially friendly. In fact, I don't think I ever actually touched him. He always ran from me. He was one of the many cats who were born under the deck or behind the storage shed and just stayed around, never being trusting enough to let me near. Most of the cats around here have similar backgrounds and behavior.
There was a time this would have upset me a lot more than it does right now. Now, I just see it as the coming and going of little specks of existence – tiny waves in the bigger ocean of the universe. There's no point in being attached to my existence or anyone else's, because the perception of being alive will end eventually in any event.
If something happened to Beasley or Smudge, who have been with me ten and nine years, respectively, I'd be a lot more upset, I suppose.
But we all come and go. How real are we?
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