Who, me?

I woke up this morning to discover that she’d done it again, this time at the foot of the futon. So as we set about all the requisite scrubbing, I remembered how painful it was nursing Plato through his final days. A wave of such unfathomable grief washed over me that I could barely breathe.

The thing is, I loved him completely and he adored me. I don’t love Twitchy yet. I don’t even like her much. But she’s not merchandise. We can’t return her. We made a commitment to her and all that entails. Still, the thought of having to cope with such an unpleasant behavior was too much. I had to sit down. I had to sob. The feeling has stayed with me all day, but I recognize that it is grief, not despair.

I’ve been impressed and rather moved by all I’ve seen written about Robin Williams in the past few days. He seems to have touched so many lives. Or maybe his death is hard to accept because he was all about humor. How could someone who brought such laughter to so many have been unable to find any hope in his own life? I can only guess, but it seems like that is the curse of depression. In his case, he could make other people laugh, and could probably laugh at other people, but he couldn’t laugh at himself.

As sad as I am in my unending grief, I still have hope. If I have to clean up cat pee every morning for a while, I guess that’s something I can cope with. I will remind myself that she isn’t doing it out of spite and I will continue to hope that she gets over whatever is bothering her.

On the plus side, just before we left for lunch, she plopped herself down on the floor and let me pet her, and it wasn’t just a touch on the shoulders. I petted her whole back, scratched he cheeks, stroked her forehead. The bud of hope blossomed in my chest. For that kind of reward, I can put up with a lot of pee.


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