two mutton pills and a stein of mead

Well. My last entry was a little more hysteria-tinged than I would've liked. Sorry about that. I guess I should've waited 'til I was calmer before I told everyone, except -- I don't know when that will be. As of today, I am still a wet and wild mess.

But I have to thank you all -- profusely! -- for the kind words. They helped. And I know I don't deserve them, because -- look at me! I disappear for weeks on end, then I show up out of nowhere just to splash misery and depression all over your screens! God. Y'all should just jettison me, for the good of your own sanity.



I can't honestly say any of you would've liked Hugo. No one did. No one but me. No, really! He was kind of...an acquired taste? "Too intense" was the complaint I heard most often. I don't know, maybe I just wasn't introducing him to the right people. To me, he was the best. A good soul, and a perfect, wonderfully crooked little head. (It really was crooked. He had an aural hematoma as a baby, and one of his ears didn't stick up.)

In recent years, he decided I couldn't be trusted to look after myself. He kept me honest, made sure I got enough sleep, stuck to a basic schedule. He absolutely felt I couldn't do those things on my own. Was he right? I have no idea! I guess we'll see.

So here's the main thing I'm remembering tonight:

Around eleven or twelve years ago, I was having a hard time. In general. (Details available upon request, but I promise, they're not that exciting.) I had to leave Hugo and Aloysius with a friend for a few weeks while -- well. While I figured out where we were all gonna live. I went by one day to visit, and she told me she hadn't seen him -- not once. She knew he was there, somewhere, 'cos she was finding little clumps of white hair everywhere she went, but whatever he was up to, he wanted no part of her. Aloysius was a fun little dude, she told me. They hung out together all the time. But this one? It's the damnedest thing. He just hides.

And I guess he must have smelled me, or recognized my voice, because just at that moment, Hugo popped his head out from behind her big TV, screamed, and fully launched himself at me. It was wild; he clung to me and buried his little nose in my neck and -- it was a spectacle. It was heartbreaking. He wouldn't let go. I'd already had him more than four years, but that was definitely the first time I realized he loved me as much as I loved him.

He was so self-sufficient, not needy like his brother. He always seemed to just, I dunno. Have his own things going on. A rich inner life, for sure. I'm not sure exactly where or how I got the idea he just wasn't that into me, but let me tell you. I was wrong.

We were already bonded, but after that day, we were mega-ultra-bonded.

Is there a point to this story? I don't know. We...loved each other? A lot? I guess I just felt like rambling about my buddy for a little while tonight. Thanks for listening.

Like three different people have told me this week that losing a cat (or dog) is harder than losing a husband. (And all three actually have lost husbands. The ultimate in credibility!) And -- listen. I don't know from husbands. Don't have one, never lost one. But I can believe it.