Not just a cat

I am in a place where at the moment I can’t really read or watch anything sad. It doesn’t take much to push me over the precipice whereby I become a sobbing mess. So it’s probably not the wisest idea for me to read about Neil Gaiman’s beloved cat Zoe, who has an inoperable tumour and is going to put to sleep later in the week.

I read entry after entry and cry. My cat is the one who suffers the most, because I make him sit in my lap after I read an entry and hug him real hard.

My mother never really understood how I can feel about animals the way I do, and I remember at least one time she admonished me for liking animals more than I do people. But as I sit here alone, divorce looming on the horizon, it’s my dog and my cat who are here with me, concerned looks on their faces. My dog puts her head in my lap and my cat pokes at me with his paw as if to say, “Hey, are you ok?”

Added 26 January: Zoe has passed. Read only if you are someplace where it’s OK if you cry, because you will. Very hard.

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