The Gifts

The Gifts, by Emil Wilson
As things got worse, Roy and I would have these epic, screaming fights.
Later, I'd find one of the pets on the empty side of the bed. I figured whoever wasn't with me was sleeping in the guest room with him.
When Roy finally did move out, it felt like the world was ending. His new apartment didn't allow pets. "They're happier here with you anyway," he said.
A few days later, the cat killed a bird and left it on the stairs. It had always been Roy's job to pick up any dead animals.
When I found a ball on my chair, I picked it up but the dog didn't rush for the door. This was very odd behavior. A man says "Is this a subtle hint?"
Two mouse legs showed up on my pillow where I couldn't miss them.
Other things appeared, left by doorways or in the middle of a floor. This attention felt strange but also wonderful.
I went to the pet store and bought toys to cheer them up too. But they didn't touch them. The pets seemst to be saying "we're fine, we're worried about you."
I tried to act happy. Look at me, I'm find! But I'm not sure any of us believed it.
The pets didn't feel the same heartbreak that I did. But it was clear they wanted to take care of me as best they could. And eventually, things did get better.
When she was thirteen, the dog got cancer: terminal, awful. I arranged for a vet to come to the house so she'd be comfortable when she died. The cat watched from across the room and when it was over, she walked over, head-butted one of the dog's legs, and ran outside.
That cat lived to be twenty-one. She never minded the vet's office as the dog had. When I took her there for the last time, I brought along a blanket from home. She curled up on it, relaxed in my arms and appreciated this small comfort from somebody she knew loved her deeply.
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Emil Wilson is an art director, illustrator, and comic artist based in San Francisco. More of his work can be found at emilwilsonart.com as well as on Instagram at emilwilsonart.

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