It’s tough watching your pet die

Thelma must be at least twenty-five years old. She’s had two vivariums, and lived in two locations. First under the stairs at the old house and now in the corner of the current one. She’s never been one to chat, she’s not really that social. She’s spent all that time devouring crickets and basking on a rock while probably contemplating the works of Nietzsche.

She used to be a fat bitch, and of course lived with Louise. She died years ago, so poor Thelma has lived in isolation ever since. But now, like most old ladies, she’s lost a lot of weight, she isn’t as spritely as she used to be. In an odd turn of fate, she has an infection in her tail, the crickets who she used to eat are now eating her.

I’ve emptied her tank of food, she’s not interested in it anymore. I hand fed her a few crickets but now she’s had enough.

She’s now just basking in the moonlight and taking her final breaths. She’s outlived two relationships and not within any of that time has she found God. Maybe it’s her turn to now.

I’ll miss you Thelma, you were a constant in my life, and now another door has closed.

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