Winston's big day

The shriek of the alarm pierced the early morning with incessant savagery.
I rolled out of bed and proceeded to haphazardly dress myself. Winston was awake and alert, inquiring with his bright green eyes and a chirping meow if he would soon be receiving his breakfast. With a slight heaviness of heart, I picked him up and put him in his carrier.
My day of glory was liquefying before my eyes; through a mist of tears, I patted Winston on the head.
I was betraying him.
"It's okay little kitty," I told him.
Jason and I got in the car and drove silently to the Cache Humane Society. The enormous woman at the front desk continued to refer to him as "Quantos." His homeless name.
"And Quantos is male, needing a neuter?" she asked.
"Yes!" Jason and I said together, with equal exuberance and guilt.
"Winston needs a neutering," I quickly corrected myself, feeling slightly protective.
As we filled out the necessary paperwork, I reflected on the past few months. In my mind's eye, I saw Winston, claws out, ears back, swinging from the curtains. Winston, trailing through the soil of my newly potted plants. Winston on his back legs, body tensed, scratching ruthlessly at the couch. Winston, perched precariously on the edge of the toilet, drinking. Winston, with dilated pupils, fangs bared, ready to strike at my outstretched hand. I eyed the scratches on Jason's arms and then looked at my own. I could just barely perceive the faintest pale pink markings of scars.
My melting heart hardened.
The woman  lifted Winston's small cage in her large, doughy hands and placed it on the top of a towering pile of identical containers; it was a mountain, an endless plethora of meowing cats. I only caught a flashing glimpse of green eyes from within the cage before Jason and I left the building, got into the car, and drove away, laughing.