Skinny Cow, Orange Cat

Came home and ate a skinny cow. Mint. Sarah's home. Yay. Last night I had a meltdown. Flat out melt down. Our cat is sick. Oscar. A handsome boy. Orange. One of two cats we got on July 21, 1999, when upon a walk home from the doctor, Leila asked when we'd get another cat. Our first and last attempt, Nell, had lasted six months, and ended with feline leukemia. The girls' father had died in January and their Apa in June of '98. It'd been a bad a year and a half. So on the walk home we'd seen a flyer announcing that a cat needed a home. I called and we were the only ones to inquire.

Oscar came and the owner told us he'd been paired up with a black and white cat since kittens: Russell. We took him, too.
Now Oscar is sick. It might be cancer. He has a tumor under his right facial cheek.

This cat hugs the girls. I kid you not. Hugs them. Two front paws around their neck and the hind legs around their ribcage. I've always suspected these cats were sent from above.

So last night I had a meltdown after bringing him home. Threw my water bottle onto the floor with a loud thud and shocked Leila. I was upset over something Sarah had implied. Wow. I hit the roof. Lots was said and I went to bed crying.

This morning it all made sense. I'm living in the pain body, looking always for drama. I am not used to this freedom and one twist of ugly fate and I'm a mess. So I pulled myself together, apologized to Sarah, and announced this woman was determined to cross the barrier known as disappointment and sadness, dismissal, rejection. I was through with it.

I put the pain body out to dry.

I will mourn and miss Oscar when he goes. I, along with Sarah and Leila, can't go there right now. So I will do what I tell Sarah as she tells me from her room that she is sad for him.

"Love him everyday," I say.

Love
every
day.