When you were sick, Prime and I loaded you into our car, Scamper, to take you to the vet. You managed to see that car a few times; it was Scamper who gave you your last ride home.
That car is all but gone, Sammy. His last day was Friday. We’re currently borrowing Prime’s father’s–his real father, not the abusive asshead who happened to share the house with him when he was a kid–truck for a while. We’re looking at cars on Carvana, trying to find something in our price range. We hope to get an SUV or the like; that way, we won’t be dealing with a scraped undercarriage.
It still sucks.
To a degree, it feels as if losing Scamper is losing one last tie with you. No, you weren’t in that car too often but it was around for a good number of years while you were with us. Now, that car is going to be taken away, hauled off for who knows what, probably bound for a car crusher or a scrapyard or some other kind of automotive hell and I can’t save him. I feel helpless.
I hate that feeling. I felt it last year, when I had to make that final decision, and I hate it.
I hate August. I hate feeling helpless. But most of all, I hate myself for letting you down. I fucked up, Sammy, and you had to pay for it.
I don’t know how long it might be before I finally forgive myself. I think it’s going to be a long time.
P.S. Your dad is slowly getting better. He’s rather happy now, since Lulu came into our lives. He’s smiling more, Sammy. It would make you happy seeing that.