This morning, as I was waiting for Yellow Kitty to get his second subcutaneous fluids injection, I saw a middle aged woman come out of the admissions door. She gave a "that's that" kind of sigh, and I glanced at her as she swung an empty cat carrier onto one of the chairs. It was like I suddenly had a camera in my head.
-click- she's crying
-click- cat carrier
-click- little pile of poo in the carrier, no cat
"I can't walk out of the vet with an empty cat carrier, maybe they admitted her, no, you know she's been put to sleep, I'll wrap Yellow Kitty in a towel not the carrier" flashes through my head, then -tak!- the carrier comes to rest on the chair, and I start to quietly cry. So I'm sniffing, and she's sniffing, and I won't look at her. And I think if she sees me, she'll think I'm crying over my cat. I was crying over my cat, but I thought I was crying over her grief, which I could feel. She was being "good" and "tough" and I was right there with her in that moment.
She paid her bill, and the girl behind the counter asked her if she wanted the ashes returned, and she said "no."
I looked at Kitty, and tried to think of where we would scatter his ashes, but I couldn't think of anywhere. I decided Leo would decide.

It's funny how grief takes you.