Don’t feel like writing tonight. Not basketball anyway. Don’t really feel like doing anything. Other than darkening my office and squeezing between Camden, my Yorkie, and Flame Point Himalayan, Petera, whose sister died in my arms yesterday while I was gently cleaning her soiled body and matted hair.
Two weeks ago this Sunday, Panache was found to be beyond medical help. There was nothing to do but take her home where she’s lived since being rescued 15 years ago, with Petera and two Paint Ponies, from a hideous Honesdale, Pa., animal breeding operation.
For seven days or so, Panache didn’t eat or drink. Like all dying cats, she spent most of the time hiding, in this case, under the couch. But twice a day, I’d lift the couch and my wife would stick a steroid and a Chinese herb down the hatch. After a few minutes on the floor, in different locations, she’d wobble back to her sanctuary.
Full column available at: patreon.com/petervecsey