We put our eldest cat, Emily, to sleep this afternoon. She was 18 years old, and the last of the cats that came with us from Lake Geneva. A temperamental calico, she was noted in her youth for both her hunting abilities (both mice and birds) and her mercurial moods (she came with a warning sticker). Starting last year, age began to catch up with her, and she eventually confined herself to the upper bedroom. She had many illnesses, setbacks and recoveries over the past year, but in the past week deteriorated quickly, to the point that the Lovely Bride and I made the horrible and hard decision.
This afternoon we planted a flowering cherry tree under grey skies, and on Halloween laid to rest an orange and black friend. She is survived by two much younger cats, Harlequin and Victoria. The former of the two is sitting at my door with a leather bootlace in her mouth, waiting for me to drag it around the room.
Those who wish to honor Emily's memory should play with their pets this evening, and give them a treat. Emily would note that the smoked salmon is excellent.
Be discreet about your discrete affairs - Yes, folks, it’s another descent into #HomophoneHell this time. By request, even–you can thank my pal Deborah Bancroft over at Dispatches from Wordnerdia. ...
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