10.15.02
In case you were wondering, Mr. Peepers lasted throughout the night, but not through the following afternoon. We buried him in mom's flower garden, and that was that.
With the disappearance or demise of the last three cats I've loved the most, I've noticed a startling amount of personal emotional detachment at their loss.
It isn't that I don't care, I care a lot.
It's just that if I got so entirely tied up in them emotionally that I wouldn't be able to function without them, I wouldn't get very much else accomplished beyond constant grieving.
Remember, this is still technically a farm, and they are still technically farm cats. We have fields, a barn, outbuildings, a farmhouse, and farm cats.
Farm cats die.
They eat mice, they scamper around, they offer love, and they get hit by cars, slaughtered by neighborhood dogs or raccoons, or they simply don't come back from afternoon rambles.
I still love the kitties, I just don't love the kitties, and I certainly don't fall apart when they do.
Maybe this means the crazy pills are working? I don't know.
What's in your head?