I must just be hormonal as hell or something. I was walking up the sidewalk with my dad to get in the house and the dog drops something at my feet. It's a chipmunk. I gasp and see that the chipmunk is struggling to breathe and hold onto life. Dad said that it was dying and my heart felt heavy and there was a lump in my throat. I recognized this chipmunk as the one that lived in our courtyard. My cat was feet away, eyeing this poor thing like he wanted to get at it. I knew it was my cat who did this, and the dog was protecting it from the stupid cat.

I watched it, hurting more and more as I saw it gasping for breath. Dad came back with a shovel, and asked if I wanted it to suffer or if I wanted it to die and avoid the suffering.

My lip quivered. I don't want anything to die, but making it suffer was inhumane.

"Kill it." I said softly.

I went inside and cried. I know it's stupid, but it hurt to see that poor thing in so much pain and to know now that he's dead now.

After that, my parents put in Edward Scissorhands. It was such a great movie, but at the end, I cried. Crying at a movie must be a signal of getting old. That's something my mom would do.