Now That My Head's on Straight...

...well, as straight as it gets anyway...it's always slightly off-kilter...

When I wrote my last post I was simultaneously going through at least two of the five (?) stages of grief over the death of my cat, Zeke. And generally, that is not the optimal time to be blogging.

So, sorry for the somewhat over-dramatic tone of the last post. But, heck, I'm half-Italian and drama is what we do best.

It made me realize that if this little computer thing had been around when I was a single lass, I would have gotten myself into a whole lotta trouble.

In the old days, I could write any manner of nasty "I hate your f*cking guts, you mother-f*cking piece of pond scum" letter and then just sleep on it. (Writing with a pen and paper, imagine that kiddies!)

And in the light of day, it always became clear that the mother-f*cking-piece-of-pond-scum former paramour wasn't worth the 28 cents (or whatever postage was back then) it would take to mail my diatribe.

And ultimately, isn't it a little more dignified not to stoop to the level of calling someone a "mother-f*cking piece of pond scum"-- even if it's an extremely accurate description?

Zeke's Adoption Day - 1993
Anyway, after a 24-hour period of wallowing depression last week, reality reintroduced itself and reminded me that the vet had recommended euthanasia, and I had been at peace during the process, which was handled very respectfully by the staff.

To that end, I give props to Village Veterinary Hospital in Medford, NJ and in particular Dr. James Massaro, who gave it to me straight, and recommended the euthanasia in a gentle way.

(Yeah, I cried in front of strangers, but at least they were silent tears.)

Bring me the head of Barbie

I was allowed to be alone with Zeke while the sedative took effect and say my goodbyes in private. I stroked him and spoke softly to him while he stared at me with wide green eyes.

But he wasn't scared -- heck, the part of the process that upset him the most was riding in the car.

Perhaps not Zeke's finest hour -- but in his defense, the
bathroom was poorly insulated and the water in the toilet froze that winter!

I had been expecting him to fall asleep, but when the nurse returned to take him to the Dr. for the euthanasia, she told me that their eyes do not close.

So, I handed him over, and he lay in the nurse's arms looking completely relaxed, with his arm draped over the nurse's...and I whispered, "He had a good life."