My planned post (tentatively titled "No, I Am Totally Correct About Marriage") has been temporarily shelved because of my household's Current Cat Tragedy.
And if there's one thing I know, it's that this world is full of things MUCH MUCH sadder than my old cat's peaceful, kind death. I know this. But it's my own current little tragedy and it's all my fault, no matter how gently intended, so I'm going to wallow just for this post and then I'll get back to ranting about Bad Ideas In Marriages Today or What The Eff Is Gwyneth Paltrow Feeding Her Poor Kids or My Hair: Why Do I Still Not Know What To Do With It or whatever other pressing matters I feel need attending.
Frank was from my parents' farm, heavier-boned than most of their cats and with a shy sweetness that set him apart from the usual brazen, bad-tempered farm cats who either begged for attention or were aloofly disdainful. He was - and I say this in the usual way of spurned lovers - special and so I loved him and that is my excuse. And I've written about him already with what I find an embarrassing frequency because HE WAS A CAT and I HAVE BECOME SOMEONE WHO WRITES ABOUT THEIR CAT.
"You are such a nice, nice boy, Frank," the gentle-eyed farm vet said to him, petting him. "It will all be okay." And then Frank died. It was a kindness.
We will get his body from the vet next month and bury him when the ground thaws and he will become this fixed spot in the past, receding away from me. And so I guess this is my formal goodbye to him, the last words I will ever write about him. He was just a cat, but he was MY cat and I'm pretty blue about him. The end.