But not really into it.
There’s no getting over it, really; there’s only getting on with the rest of life.
Eight years ago, I took my 13-year-old Turkish Van to the vet for his final visit. I held him close for an hour while I waited for our appointment. I looked him in the eye when the vet gave him his injections. I sat in the office holding him for another hour, weeping, sobbing. That was eight years ago, and I still miss him, even though other cats have taken his place. Sometimes, that day feels like the end, like I’ll never cry that way again. Of course I will.
Dammit, Cleek, I am glad you are back. I’ve checked regularly and of I’d had a meat space connection I would have worked it hard.
Comments are closed.