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Something I here don’t do a whole lot is give credit where it is due.

Sure, I tell a lot of gross girl-joke stories, and if you want information about the the current state of my pubic hair, look no further. While that is all well and good, I feel as though I must give a shout-out to the one person who has made this entire blogging experience happen to us, AND to most of you: my husband.

And to be fair last night he actually THREW a crusty greenish yellow booger at me while he was sleeping, but who can blame him? I am still the person who was, according to both of her parents, and I quote, “Born smoking a cigar and barking out orders.”

Yesterday WHILE AWAKE, he did something for me that I couldn’t do myself: he took my bestest cat in the whole wide world in to be put to sleep. He held him while he died. And no amount of crusty boogies thrown at me day or night can minimize that to me. It meant EVERYTHING.

My heart was wearing a less-sad face knowing that Finnigan died with someone who loved him (almost) as much as I do.

This isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination the only thing that Daver has ever done for me. He allowed me to pick out AND BUY the car that I wanted over the car he wanted. He’s even learning to like it! That may have something to do with the fact that I GRILL him about it over and over, but so what? Right?

He doesn’t even talk TOO much about annulments when I use my crappy way of evoking the cheerful daemons when he’s in a nasty, foul, disgusting, flatulent mood. I mean maybe you don’t know this but I SING HIM ROD STEWART! AT TOP VOLUME! Now I of course, ADORE Rod “The Hot-Bod At 708 Years Old” Stewart, but I recognize this as another of my dirty and gross qualities.

Take whatever dislike you likely have for my choice in music and couple that with the fact that my singing physically shears wallpaper from the walls. Really, it does. This is why we have none in our house.

In this vein, I leave you with my favorite quote from my favorite Rod “I Can’ Believe I’m Still Makin’ Baby Batter’ Stewart, and I dedicate it to you, my sweet Daver:

You’re a rhapsody, a comedy,
You’re a symphony, and a play;
You’re every love song ever written,
But honey, what do you see in me?

Rest in peace, Finnigan.

I’ll be missing you.

My heart cracked as loud as a coffee mill.

Today, I learned that my second favorite cat in the world, the first being his deceased brother, has been diagnosed with liver failure. He remains alive, very frail but alive, due to the miracles of modern medicine. My mother shared the news with me over lunch today, but the details of it remain blurred. The only thing that I can recall is the sinking feeling in my gut and my heart breaking audibly over the sounds of the busy restaurant.

After lunch, in which I shoveled in the obligatory two bites tasting nothing but sand and saltwater tears, I saw him. His bones were prominent over his back and legs, and his eyes lethargic but alert and bright. I was filled with a deep sorrow and wept softly into his back, and as I shook he feebly licked my hand as he had so many times before.

The unfairness of this broke my shattered heart into even tinier pieces. How could HE try to comfort ME, especially NOW? I guess the real question now is how can I really mourn someone that isn’t yet dead? Logically, it makes no sense.

I’ve never been much of one for goodbyes, as anyone close to me will know well. I prefer to keep them at a ‘See you when I see you’ kind of level whenever possible to spare myself the very real thought that I will never again see said person/place/thing.

I dislike the permanence of death and goodbyes, the feeling that one ought to say or do anything necessary prior to the visit from the Grim Reaper, because WHAT IF I FORGET SOMETHING IMPORTANT?

I *ALWAYS* forget important stuff.

So now we play the Waiting Game, which happens to be my least favorite of all games. There’s always a possibility that he will pull through, but the likelihood of that happening is very slim. Miracles don’t happen to cats.

At least not to the great ones.

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