Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Charles Bukowski | Terminology

my other favorite cat seemed to be dying and
I had him in and out of the vet's
for x-rays, consultations, injections,

"anything at all, " I told the doc
"let's try to keep him going..."

one morning I drove over to pick him
up and the girl at the counter
a vast girl in a wrap-around white
nurse's outfit
asked me, "do you want your cat put
to sleep?"

"what?" I asked.

she repeated her

"put to sleep?" I asked, "you mean

"well, yes," she said, smiling with her
tiny eyes, then looking at the card
in her hand she said, "oh, I see it was
Mrs. Evans who wanted it done..."

"really?" i asked.

"sorry," she said and walked into the other
room with her card and her sorry fat ass and
her sorry walk and her sorry life and
her sorry death and her sorry Mrs. Evans and
both of their sorry fat shits.

I walked over, sat down and opened up a
cat magazine, then closed it, thinking, it's
just her job, it's something she does, she doesn't
kill the cats.

when she came into the office again she no
longer quite disgusted me and I opened the pages
of the cat magazine again and looked at and turned
the pages as if I had forgotten everything, which
I hadn't

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