[Un]Happy New Year

There is something inherently risky about being a pet in our house during the new year.  Murray, my funny and possessive gray and white kitty?  January 2007.  Hobbes (aka Hobson), my precious and gentle tortoiseshell Persian? December 30, 2009.  And now the latest: Our sweet Abby Tabby, who would have been sixteen years old in March died on Wednesday.  Despite her advanced age, she still seemed and looked much younger than she was, and age may mitigate but never erases our devastation.  She was quirky and loving and vocal.  She was a voracious eater, indulging in the dog's food daily, despite our best attempts to deter her.  Even Sam, our Komondor, looks for her and seems a little sad and lost.  I say "even" because Abby hated Sam with the special kind of venom one usually reserves for Pauly Shore movies.

So, not such a happy new year here.  And you want to know what really sucks?  I can't read.  I can't write.  There's no getting lost in a book to forget about sadness for awhile.  My brain just won't focus.  Honestly, I'm having difficulty putting this blog entry together, but I'm determined to write my way through this paralysis.  So, here I sit, tapping away and trying to create a sentence that is neither maudlin nor flip.  And failing miserably.

Maybe you're reading this and thinking, "Being dramatic much?"  I'm guessing then that you've never lost a pet.  I see her and hear her everywhere, and sitting with an animal while they die isn't something you can just shake off and instantly move on from. (See? Now I'm ending sentences in prepositions.  It's the grief writing, and apparently, grief has terrible grammar.)

No wise or witty words today.  No lists or rants.  Just a sad person trying not to think so much about big green eyes or stripey tails and then writing about them anyway.

Abby (1999 - 2015)