we had intended to go into that store as any other day; simply to look around all the pets and come home in time for dinner.

but that day was life changing. i pleaded and pleaded and my father had been in a great mood. he thought for a few minutes. and with hesitation in his eyes, agreed dimly.

the first few weeks with him passed by quickly. the house seemed like a cake of heaven. such joy and laughter and naughtiness. the work was new, the constant eyeing was heavy on my routine, but it didn't matter with the pleasantness of his company.

then came the day; that left a bruise that healed but remained sensitive forever. he scratched at the door as usual. and we ignored as much as we could, enduring patiently. but my father wasn't in a particularly kind mood that day and in a fit of rage, he threw the door open and let him out.

i blame myself for the vagueness of my memory and for the lack of responsibility i displayed. suffice it to say, he never returned. lost in the grimness of the dark alleys and street wounds.

when i was 26, i met another one. similar to him. or rather, was it him? or so i saw.

i took him, cared carefully, hurt and insecure by my previous errors but hopeful to repeat them. days passed into weeks and weeks into months. he was perfectly lovely, very lazy and dismissive in his attitude towards me. he was a typical.

i spoilt him rotten. my father would throw one of his famous rages around every so often, only this time, i would to. and he never behaved quite in the same way again. it was a little battle i had, after many long battles, won.

then one day, he didn't eat. he didn't drink. he didn't move much and remained low. my heart dropped in my stomach and i rushed him to the doctor.

of course, he was sick. he was the kind of sick that didn't translate into peaceful return. i felt that jab in my chest, but proceeded with his treatment anyway. faith moved mountains, so what of illnesses?

he worsened. probably not more than i had. hours passed into days until one day, he did fall the kind of sick that from which i knew there was no better place than death.

i was 26. but i trembled like a 6 year old and could not watch his eyes anymore. i couldn't bear to hold him. i was terrified, watching.

he took his last in a hospital, far away from me, where he was left to be buried.

he never came home again. and i was not with him, like a coward, that i was.