Andare, Partire, Tornare
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A 23 pound hole in my heart.
I had an entry planned on how fun going to the opera last night was, and the spectacle that is Aida, sitting a few feet in front of Laura Bush, and maybe a side discussion on the Italian reporters sitting in front of us.
But I don't have the heart to write about any of that because it all seems very unimportant right now. This morning, while stumbling blindly around the bedroom trying to dress this morning, I discovered that my little boy cat, my Bogie, lying under the computer desk. He was stretched out in his customary sideways flop, legs out, tail straight, and I thought at first that he was sound asleep, although it was strange that he wasn't whining for food along with Grace.
Some time that night, my little guy had died. He was only nine years old, and hadn't been sick. The doctor said that he probably had an underlying heart condition that had snuck by undetected. He died quickly and painlessly. Bemo and I are the ones with the pain. We took his body to the vet clinic where I had adopted him, and Bemo clung to his towel-wrapped body for a long minute, crying softly. Right now, back at work, I keep tearing up as I look up and meet Bogie's gaze, staring out at me from the photo that I took one night, while trying to study with a cat sitting on my textbook.
No more warm bulk between my feet at night. No more head rubs. No more arrogant glances or imperious whines for tummy rubs. No more playing goofily with ponytail bands or milk bottle rings.
Goodbye, Bo. We miss you.
10:53 a.m. - 2003-02-25
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