I buried Snapper yesterday. Damnit. He'd been struggling with feline asthma since April.
The medicine stopped working, his quality of life went south over the weekend,
and I took him to the vet late yesterday to meet the youth in Asia.
And as long as I'm being Debbie Downer, I might as well 'fess up about Rosebud. I buried her in August.
She was fine one minute, gone the next. I suppose that's not unusual for 18-year-old cats,
but it was shocking nonetheless and I didn't feel like talking about it at the time. Still don't.
I did tell you about Daffodil's passing in May. It's been a very bad year for cats here.
This is what happens when you bring animals into your life at about the same time
and they grow old together and all decide to leave together.
So this is the first time in 18 years that a cat has not been underfoot. It's very, very strange, and the house is feeling too big for Smooch and I. We'll adjust. But we also may take a few days off to get used to the idea. And watch the Weather Channel 24/7. Because my woes aren't even a blip on the radar in the grand scheme of things, and we're hoping all our friends back east, especially Don Estorbo, are safe.
