My writing and reading has been pretty stagnant these days. I check books out of the library and I add them to my Goodreads ‘currently reading’ shelf. I don’t come back to them. My saved links on Facebook is just a stockpiled collection of articles and stories I’ve been accumulating over the past week.
I read this
beautiful personal essay by Delia Ephron in The Times earlier today.
I first read Mammoth
a few years ago. The piece was published in early August, my cat had died in late May. I never wrote about Moose. She was a senior citizen and dying quickly, I knew it was time for her to go but that didn’t make it any easier when I held her paw as the doctor euthanized her. It’s stuck with me since then, all these years later. I re-read it a few days ago, after we euthanized Jonesy.
I’ve been trying to write an ode to my ginger midget. It’s getting there. He was the first cat we got together.
He turned two at the end of this past summer, and stayed alive for another two and a half months after that. I think of all the ways I could have kept his heart alive.
You have other cats.
You could get another cat.
I think of all the ways I could have kept his heart alive.