My brother had to put down one of our farm cats the other day. We had only one female among six toms. Even though the farmhouse is half a mile from the gravel road, Sheba apparently walked over the creek-bridge, past the windmill, and made her way up the road... where she was apparently hit by a vehicle and left to die. When my brother found Sheba, she was barely clinging to life (and obviously in pain.) Even though my brother was a sharpshooter in the military, he's not a big fan of guns. And having to put down our precious Sheba wasn't easy for him. On the farm, death is all around. We no longer have livestock, but even then, the livestock was taken to market. There was no slaughtering going on. Back to Sheba. It still hurts to think about her. I hate that she was in pain. I don't know how long she was suffering before David found her. She's buried next to one of her kittens who was killed by a raccoon. (Raccoons will kill and eat kittens... sad fact.) Sheba's burial site is known as Bulb Hill. Before our mother passed away from complications related to dementia, I planted every kind of flower bulb I could find (irises, lilies, hyacinths, tulips...) on that hill so she could enjoy it. During her final months, I was desperate for anything to make her smile or happy, so establishing Bulb Hill and helping David scatter wildflower seeds in our huge (and former) vegetable garden site was my main mission.
Anyway, I am still mourning the loss of our dear Sheba. She was a short-haired tortoise shell and looked something like this (except not with as much white or orange):
