Other: Utter Glurge
I'm going to be completely self-indulgent, here. Of course, if I wasn't, I wouldn't be writing a blog: it's the definition. But I will provide an early warning (other than the title) that this is going to be about the death of a family pet. Caveat Emptor.
I have a lot more room in my chair than I'm used to right now. I'm far more accustomed to be wrestling for space with my cat, Elizabeth. She had a small, temperature-sensitive homing device that would guide her to the warmest spot in the house, and frequently that was me. What I was doing at the time mattered little to her; if I happened to be at the computer at the time, there would be a brief wrestling match to see how little I could move her without being reprimanded while still being able to type. After a few months of intense negotiations that rivalled any labour board, we agreed that when I was sitting, she could be at my right, wedged between the arm of the chair and my leg; I, in exchange, would guaruntee that the keyboard did not infringe upon the space her head currently occupied. In bed, she slept between my legs; reading on the couch, she was permitted the use of my belly. We've had her longer than Jenny and I have been married.
I defy anyone who had any beast that slept on their belly for eight years not to cry when it dies. I'm crying now. It makes for a blurry screen, and the proof reading may be a little off, but it's not like I have much of a choice.
A common theme of our pets is their names: they only get a single name and title when they come to us from the SPCA, and the others they earn as they go. Elizabeth, when we first got her, was a perpetual crank. Daring to move her, or anything she was sitting on (cushions, blankets, you) without her prior permission got a stern reprimand, so she was promptly given the title of "Princess". She cost us $1000 in the first year we had her, as there was something in her lungs making her breathe loudly and we were trying to figure out what exactly it was. We (the vet and us) finally decided it was scarring from an old lung infection, and if it wasn't hurting her, we just weren't going to worry about it anymore. The noise remained, so we also dubbed her "Two-Stroke". She was also a fantastically decorative cat: a beautiful cream colour with bright blue eyes, but also in that wherever she went, she simply became part of the decor because she was not going to move from that spot until forced. Thus her last name: "Throw Pillow".
The Princess Elizabeth Two-Stroke Throw Pillow, aged... uh... anywhere from twelve to sixteen, is now buried in our garden beneath a Rosa Mutabilis, and in lots of sunlight (one of a few - very few - of her favorite things). At least we know she ain't moving. Oh, come now; you didn't think I'd pass up a little morbid humour, did you?
Pax Vobiscum.
I have a lot more room in my chair than I'm used to right now. I'm far more accustomed to be wrestling for space with my cat, Elizabeth. She had a small, temperature-sensitive homing device that would guide her to the warmest spot in the house, and frequently that was me. What I was doing at the time mattered little to her; if I happened to be at the computer at the time, there would be a brief wrestling match to see how little I could move her without being reprimanded while still being able to type. After a few months of intense negotiations that rivalled any labour board, we agreed that when I was sitting, she could be at my right, wedged between the arm of the chair and my leg; I, in exchange, would guaruntee that the keyboard did not infringe upon the space her head currently occupied. In bed, she slept between my legs; reading on the couch, she was permitted the use of my belly. We've had her longer than Jenny and I have been married.
I defy anyone who had any beast that slept on their belly for eight years not to cry when it dies. I'm crying now. It makes for a blurry screen, and the proof reading may be a little off, but it's not like I have much of a choice.
A common theme of our pets is their names: they only get a single name and title when they come to us from the SPCA, and the others they earn as they go. Elizabeth, when we first got her, was a perpetual crank. Daring to move her, or anything she was sitting on (cushions, blankets, you) without her prior permission got a stern reprimand, so she was promptly given the title of "Princess". She cost us $1000 in the first year we had her, as there was something in her lungs making her breathe loudly and we were trying to figure out what exactly it was. We (the vet and us) finally decided it was scarring from an old lung infection, and if it wasn't hurting her, we just weren't going to worry about it anymore. The noise remained, so we also dubbed her "Two-Stroke". She was also a fantastically decorative cat: a beautiful cream colour with bright blue eyes, but also in that wherever she went, she simply became part of the decor because she was not going to move from that spot until forced. Thus her last name: "Throw Pillow".
The Princess Elizabeth Two-Stroke Throw Pillow, aged... uh... anywhere from twelve to sixteen, is now buried in our garden beneath a Rosa Mutabilis, and in lots of sunlight (one of a few - very few - of her favorite things). At least we know she ain't moving. Oh, come now; you didn't think I'd pass up a little morbid humour, did you?
Pax Vobiscum.
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