I love my patio so hard. Here’s the view from where I sit:
(Not pictured: the smell of the honeysuckle, the taste of the cappuccino, and the ant creeping up my leg.)
New things …
Our 17 year old cat, Moth, died. As pet deaths go, it went as well as it possibly could. He stopped eating or drinking but seemed comfortable; still purred when petted. I was sitting by him when he breathed his last. I cuddled his soft body and cried while HB brought me tissues, then TH held him, then HB. We buried him out here in the patio, his favorite place. HB said, “Oh! Wait!” and ran and got a rubber band (Moth’s favorite thing to play with) and had TH tuck it in with him. That was when TH cried. Then we all sat on the couch and petted our other cat (the one pictured above) and cried a little more and talked about the good times with Moth. HB got out a box of Thin Mints he’d been saving and we all had some. It was practically a Cosby episode, the kind that makes you roll your eyes because of how unrealistic it is.
He even peed his last time IN his litter box.
Our leftover cat was utterly bereft. I’ve never seen a cat grieve so. He spent his days and nights glued to me. We were soon to take a trip and I realized I couldn’t leave him alone, so I went on a hunt for a Moth-like replacement. When I got Moth, he was 7 years old, abandoned at a shelter because his family “moved.” He was doing a terrible job of selling himself compared to the cute kittens – hugely fat, wild dilated eyes, fur flying off him as he shedded from stress – but something about him spoke to me. I stuffed him into the too-small cat carrier and staggered home. With diet and exercise he lost 7 pounds and was a svelte beast the rest of his days (slimming down a cat is not hard to do, by the way). We had our ups and downs – turned out he detested infants – but one thing he taught me was how to savor the smallest things. He was an outrageously happy cat.
So I came across a cat being taken from his owner because she’d overfed him to past 30 pounds (she herself had an eating disorder in the opposite direction). Incredibly sweet, but almost at the point of not being able to walk. I hauled him home in a dog crate. We’ve had him 3 months and he’s lost 7 pounds already and can now turn over, walk, run, jump, and, thank sweet heaven, clean himself. Below is a comparison picture I did for his 2 month anniversary. We named him Foosa, after the fierce cat-like creatures of Madagascar. Our other cat was back to his old self almost immediately.
Running is great; no Nana drama to speak of; HB is often wonderful and sometimes horrid rather than the other way around and is finally willing to have play dates; and cycling season is in full swing, but I’m pretty used to it.
There are some tough things. A big one is that I’ve got some [drops voice to an old-lady whisper] sex problems that go way, way back but I’m only just acknowledging. I wish I could be all out there, loud and proud, but I am a sex talk wimp. I have never discussed them in detail with anyone, EVER, and just mentioning it here makes my pulse and blood pressure rocket. Maybe I’ll be able to put it down here at some point; that would likely be very helpful, but I can’t promise it. (As if it would be some kind of treat anyway! Probably not something most people want to read.)
One other big event: TH shaved. He’s had a very long goatee for some ten years – not quite ZZ Top or Gandalf, but dramatic, and that plus his shaved head made him look a little scary and a little old. Now he looks sweet-faced and about 15 years younger, which disorients me and garners me some well, well, look who robbed the cradle! looks. Almost everyone tells him he should never grow it back, but I liked it. And not just because it kept me from seeming all Demi.
I so love hearing from you about your running successes. Don’t forget to go slow and go every OTHER day. I am right as usual.