Vinne, however, doesn't get sick, as I sit here vacillating over adopting him a new companion. The ashes will be in next week, and everyone wants me to get another cat, in a Kantian universal that unites my black handlers and my white family. I have the little one to consider, whether or not it is fair to him not to have another roommate, Fuck. If, and this is a big if, I bid to adopt another, no kitten. I'd rather rescue an older animal at risk.
I spent a small fortune on Dr. Eigner's practice we all do on the sliding scale of limited resources. Cassie recommended her to me, and I am not complaining. Eigner kept Oliver alive until I moved ten minutes away from her offices, and then he lived too long, and had to suffer for my sake, and now Joey is dead, and only work of some sort will restore the flaming hole in my savings; I also do not have to keep manufacturing these artifices of absence. My goodbye to Joey was my butchered fused foot pressing on his rigor stiff thigh. He passed in such a way that I could not move him myself, not safely, and only the tech pressing his body in the carrier, like packing a toy, broke through my shock.
When Oliver died, the vase of ash was the stuff of literary satire. Keeping Joey's is a self-imposed sentence, but also an acknowledgement. I loved Joey best, but was too stingy to be wrong a third time in a row.
House Wrap was in keeping with the spirit of the show, even if it did not entirely subvert expectations. I am trying to stream the Wilson prognosis episode, and for our purposes was successful, but I am not sure when I will return to our deconstruction of this much touted series. So much to mourn.
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