Hello from 2017

So, it has been a while since I have communicated with you. I will not demean myself with trifles about how busy I am, how easy it is to let a blog slide, or any other such nonsense. In truth, this blog has not been a priority for me. But rest assured, my study of anguish, of suffering, of life has been ongoing.

I begin with sad news.

And then will continue with more sad news.

Fremlin, aka Meena, aka my fellow feline prisoner passed away on 10/11/2014. I do not have much to say on this matter. They say "time heals all wounds," but it has been my experience that loss is not as much healed by time as it is obscured. My heart still constricts in my chest and I find it difficult to breathe when considering her, so I will move on to other, more recent losses.

You may have heard the joyous news - the prison guard spawned a child parasite. Part of the fallout of that was the "re-homing," a rather too polite term in my opinion, of one Mr. Slippy Pawsely. The dog apparently could not acclimate. He snapped and snipped at the child. 

Happily, his groomer was able to accommodate him. It is my dearest hope that he is happy in his new prison. That his new prison guard is generous with love and with sausages. 

He was obnoxious, but he was my fellow prisoner, and as such I will continue to miss him and wish for him the most unctuous of meats. 

The final loss is the most recent. The prison guard's father died in his sleep on 7/21/2017. She has confided in me that although it has been some hours and days and weeks and months since his death, she still has the impulse to dial his number on her cellular device. She still looks for him in a crowd. When her doorbell rings, her first thought is that it might be him. When taking family pictures, her brain always prompts her to capture one of him.

She has confessed that although she knows logically that he is gone, her mind plays these tricks on her continually. She will be mid-mundane task and he will rush upon her all-at-once and she is left stammering, trying to find a socially acceptable way to explain the sudden tears. Grief is strange and enduring and uncomfortable for friends and strangers. How to dampen that, or does it even matter? 

I am saddened by this loss as well. The prison guard's father was always kind to me. I recall him telling the prison guard on several occasions that I am "not really all that sad." His was a gentle soul, although he played in his band and road his motorcycle until the night he died. 

The picture above is of the first time he held his grandson. He is most dearly missed.

But this is not my loss as much as it is hers, so I will continue on to the true electric pulse of my anguish.

How to put into words this present misery? How to enumerate for you my misfortune? Oh, sad, difficult world that forces us to trudge through torment after torment and smile like fools. 

Shakespeare is apt here:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

I suppose the only way to say it is to say it.

This... abomination currently resides with us. Apparently after the prison guard's father died she needed a distraction. A cute-kitten salve. A calamity.

She might look sweet (I will admit, not even begrudgingly, that she is quite pulchritudinous), but believe me, dearest reader, she is an adorable little monster.

A monster? Are you having trouble believing me? Do I exaggerate? 

Perhaps you are thinking to yourself that after all of these losses I may have lost some of my own sanity. Please disabuse yourself of this notion. I am of as sound mind as I have ever been.

To help prove to you my lucidity in this argument, I will allow the monster herself to address you. The prison guard named her Crash Crisby after a nickname of her late father. This small gesture of remembrance does nothing to endear her to me. If anything it strengthens my loathing as she possesses none of his kindness, none of that most gentle spirit.

Hello! I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say. I love Luco! He's really great. Did you know his name is pronounced Luke-O? How are we supposed to get that from L-U-C-O? Anyway. Nice to meet you. I'm new here, but I really like it so far.

Things I like about this place: Mary is nice to me and lets me cuddle with her and the baby. The baby and I play together - we chase each other and things like that. He's a lot of fun, although he isn't always the most gentle. I suppose that's to be expected with a toddler, but sheesh, kid, stop pulling my tail! Anyway, haha, I digress. I like the food here and I like the furniture to lounge on. I like fucking with Lucy the Dog because that's funny as hell.

And more than that? One of my most favorite things? Oh man. I'm sorry, Lu, but I love, love, LOVE, love messing with you. Your reactions are just priceless. 

I'm trying to tone it down because I know how you hate being teased, but oh boy do you make that hard.

Ahem.

Do you see? Monstrous. Please refer to the picture above for evidence of some of the manhandling and bullying I am forced to put up with on a daily basis. And this Crash kitty, this new inmate, she is a baby, so I gentle my paw and keep myself from mauling her as I would like.

I hope that does not offend your sensibilities, reader. As I said, she is a baby, so I am working on my patience, but she is truly the epitome of my dolor. 

She is the fiercest grief of all.