For the last moth and a half or so, we have had this little grey kitten in the house that we have been hand-feeding because it was maybe a week old when we found it and the other cats outside were not taking care of it. Last night, I killed it.

I was kneeled down on the floor, looking at a friend's laptop, trying to help him figure something out on Windows 7, and when I went to rest a knee on the floor, the kitten was there. I didn't even know it was out of it's box. My mother says she heard a pop and knew it was done for....she heard it, but I felt it.

I can't get the image of the little legs sticking stiffly out away from it's little body as it mewled in terror and pain out of my head. It lost control of it's bodily functions at the end...But then, for all I know, death by having something ruptured inside while being squished by much weight is a normal thing.

I loved that cat so much...We called it Squeakers, because it would squeak almost relentlessly. I played with it....it licked and nibbled on pretty much anything and everything. I considered it my little brother. And I killed it.

I feel like a truly horrible person. :(