Waving Not Drowning

Oh dear, at what point do you think it's a good idea to plant yourself directly in front of me like this while I am trying to get my work done, hmmm? You see this shiny box of emanating light? Yes, this is why I sit here, day in and day out, tapping away on this little pad of raised squares, occupying my hands in such a way that it is impossible for me to spend any time caressing you. I know, it's entirely unfair on my part but really, we've been over this a thousand times if we've been over it once; you are in my way. This is not the time or the place for you to crawl onto my lap or lay in front of the computer and extend your paws onto the keyboard while I desperately try to manoeuver my way in and around your yowling, talkative feline self. Enough with the purring already. Regardless of how cute you are, and we agree on this fact at least, this is not the time or place for copious amounts of catcentric attention. I know, I am a lousy cat mother, selfish and cruel and...

Dawn's cat died. Three months ago. She's been keeping him in her studio apartment in the old 1960's single door fridge with a spring loaded fold down pocket freezer compartment that's normally one solid block of ice. When Gus finally passed away at 17 years of age, riddled with tumours, blind from cataracts, incontinant and incessantly vocal, Dawn was inconsolable. She tells people it was a psychotic break, a total mental, emotional breakdown. She stopped showing up for work, begged off commitments to her animal rights weekly potlucks and even missed the chanting pizza monthly get togethers with the Krishnas. That was the worst as she cherished the communal atmosphere and free vegan gluten free pizza and raw desserts. Plus, no one looked at her sideways there. Her two toned grey and red hair, braided as it was 40 years ago when she was a school girl,  her uniform of athletic sandals, an armful of bracelets, short shorts worn year round, with tights in the winter, and a ...