Bummer ...

So, it's been 181 days since my Gingi-kitty died.

No, it's not really any easier.

Sometimes I do okay ... I succeed at putting the fact that I don't have her anymore here from my mind.

And then I'll remember. And I lose my breath and find myself with watering eyes.

If I had had the money, would I have succumbed to the temptation of having her stuffed? Yes, it WOULD be creepy to have a taxidermied (is that even a real term? Who knows.) cat around. ... But, but ... I'd be able to pet her.

Of course, if I did have her stuffed, then if Michael ever died before I did, I might just follow my own precedent and be the crazy, creepy lady with her husband's corpse on display (however well preserved).

And I don't want to be THAT crazy. I mean, a LITTLE crazy is one thing. But crossing the line into WITHER-THE-FRIES-WOMAN-THAT'S-SOME-CRAZY-SHIZZLE ... well, I think that wouldn't be a good idea.

Still, I want my baby-cat back, dammit. I slept better when she was alive.

The only really good thing is that she's not incontinent anymore ... Poor baby cat.

But, yeah. I still miss her.

Maybe more than is healthy.

...

But that's just how I roll, I suppose.