The last straw

I was on my porch, still wondering how I was going to put the sign "fresh eggs for sale." up. Chuck joined us. I wondered how many days remained before he could enter for good in the house. After some mental arithmetic ... 10 days. 10 short days. I looked at Martin and I told him we could let him enter right away. Martin being who he is, said no. Our vet advised us not to do so. Indeed, the vet advised us not to do it ... And Martin always "follow the rules".

I took Chuck back on the terrace, I wanted him far from the street. Normally when I do that, he just go back to the garage or the barn.

Back to front. All cats were in the backyard except Paloma who was lying on a chair on the balcony. She normally does that.

As I was cleaning up my room that is with a view on the street I felt it. Yeah I always feel death, this bitch, when she is there. I felt it. Then I heard the famous knock ...
Then I hear meowed ... Then I saw something "hopping" on the street ...

I told Martin to come quick, that I think Paloma got hit and it was not finished.

It was not Paloma. It was Chuck. And it's over.
My little baby Chuck got hit.

I have boundless respect for my vet. But now that all this happened I say fuck off. Since the death of Paul, I still have the reflex to look up at the street every time a car passes. My heart is jumping each time. I can't sleep, I am always afraid.

Cats, all of them but Eole, who is somewhat aggressive, are now all in the house.

I can already hear the comments. "Are you kidding?" ... You can not have so many cats in the house? This is disgusting and bla bla bla...

I'm tired of crying. I'm tired of bad sleep, I'm tired of being afraid.
At least I know they are all safe.

And people who aren't pleased ...