I consider myself lucky that I have found a cat who is not overly interested in yarn. (I know I just said that I wasn't going to bore you with a lot of gushing about the new cat; this post is not about the cat. See title.)
This whole waking-up-the-in-dark thing isn't working out for me. I've been dragging my butt into work routinely fifteen minutes later than I'd like, clutching a cup of coffee like its the only thing anchoring me to this planet.
Meet Weasley, lately of the Yolo County Animal Shelter. He's about one year old. He has a few freckles on his nose. The whiskers on the left side of his face are mostly black, and on the right, mostly white. There are tufts of fur that stick out between the toes of his rather large feet.
My lap is cold.
There is way too much room on the bed.
My socks are exactly where I left them this morning.
No one met me at the kitchen door tonight when I came home.
And no one woke me up at four a.m. with a paw on my face.
And I miss you.
There are few things in this world that helped me to feel better at the end of long day than pulling you into my arms, buried my nose in your fur, and listening to you purr.
I will miss our friendship.
I've had to do this a couple of times, and I hate it.
And I'm pondering through the tears that I'm crying over my cat's body why it is that I've had blood relatives, with whom I've shared genes and Thanksgivings, whose deaths have affected me less than this little mammal that I'm handing over to the vet now, and is that right or is that wrong?
Or is it just what it is?
And all I can do is hope through the tears that my kid won't ask how kitty died because I've already resolved not to lie to him but I don't want to tell him mommy paid the vet to do it.
Something very odd happened to me today. I was hot. I know, how bizarre, huh? I was sitting outside on my lunch break in the sunshine listening to an audio recording of Dune on my iPod (probably not helping) and I realized I was legitimately too warm. This rarely happens to me. Welcome May.
One of my clients has the most beautiful cat I’ve ever seen. While I sit in the desk chair running Disk Warrior on a stubborn drive, she stands sentry, peering at me around the side of a stack of papers on the floor, not drawing close enough to touch, but always near enough to make sure I’m not messing with her stuff.
Here’s to Obi Wan, a good cat who wandered into our lives about the same time Episode I graced the theaters, thus the name. He was itsy bitsy and showed no fear. And then he grew and grew. We called him Ben for short. I always figured we’d get around to calling him Old Ben. Turns out we ran out of time.