(no subject)

My dad and I were talking about cats the other day, as we often are (for a guy who bred and trained Brittany Spaniels, and always had a houseful of every kind of pet imaginable, he has a sincere weakness for kitties), and he was wondering how my sister's puddytats were doing. So, he called my sister's friend who'd arranged to have someone take them after the person she'd named in her will bailed. Apparently, Bear, my little buddy, died in March. He was in frail health, but seemed to have been doing better after the move across country. And shortly afterward, Baxter followed a few months later. Baxter seemed especially happy and healthy after the move and had taken to his new person's dog quite well (much better than his bro did). I guess G didn't want to tell me because she knew how much I loved the boys, and how hard it would be for me to know.

It feels like one less link to her in the world. Everyone has moved on. Her beloved cats are gone. I'm the only memorial to the place she had in the world, sometimes, I think. And I can't believe that after all that trauma of moving the boys cross-country, they only got a year in their new lives. I've been thinking a lot lately about my ride in the ambulance to the hospital before my surgery, and it gets mixed up in my mind with the ride to the hospice center in the ambulance with my sister the day before she died. Images keep coming back no matter how much I try not to think about it. Now the poor kitties. Life kinds sucks.