Snowball's death

On the day she died Snowball was quiet. "She's been sleeping a lot," Kevin said indicating to Snowball on the couch, "I don't thinks she's moved in hours."
So we put her outside because after she sits in the sun she feels much better. The sun warms her old muscles, it dries up her weariness, the breeze moves her, she smells the flowers. The last we talked I was telling her something unmemorable as she sat under the little barb-b-que on the deck. She listened with a tired expression and said nothing.
We talked a about death this last year.
Both of us quietly doing our little crafts, watching a movie. I reach out to stroke her bony white little body.
"I'm going to miss you a lot," I always said.
She pretends to ignore me but then says, "all things must pass."
Snowball hurts a lot but she is content with life. She made her peace with death long ago and has allowed herself to be frank with me when I bring it up.
We found her under the deck the afternoon following the night we discovered the tossed away tomatoes seedlings had several tiny green tomatoes among their branches. We were looking for her that night because she didn't come home and made the discovery. "Kevin, there are tomatoes here."
Did I ever tell you? Snowball convinced me to drop out of school.
I was 18 and studying late late night on my bed when I lived with my parents. Snowball looked at me with sleepy eyes from the end of the bed.
"What are you doing?" she said but what she meant was why are you still in school.
"I need a degree to get a good job and do something with my life," I replied ambivalently.
"You're tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
And I went to sleep. 
In the unforeseeable future Snowball and I would be in our own place and I would be reading her a poem from Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fulfilled spending those years of doing my own things, reading my own books, and sleeping well. 
When I said goodbye to Snowball in the parking lot at the Human Society.
In the mornuing lot
an hou earlier I was I got busy in the business of death and mourning. A mental list cropped up and I was on the phone getting checking prices for cremations. 
I wish I were one of those heart felt latinas. The last in a throng of mourners, the men of my family holding a tiny casket above their head as I clutch a wet hanketshief and beat my chest shouting, "MIA! MIA!" and collapse in the street.
"Your tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
In the unforeseeable future Snowball and I would be in our own place and I would be reading her, Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fufilled.

I believed the lie and