I started to get my whistle back. A little. It came out as sad little disjointed squawks. Then it went away again. I'm sure my co-workers are grateful.
As much as you guys are probably thinking, "Holy shit, she killed her cat", trust me, you are not thinking it as much as I am. Although I do keep trying not to beat myself up too much. Then again, I'm sure that Hitler considered himself a pretty decent guy, too.
A week after The Runt's death, we had some pretty major storms here, with, like, tornados and flooding and shit. And friends were calling me at ten o'clock at night, all, "OMG, are you going to be evacuated? Do we need to come help you get away?" And I was all, like, "meh". The park next door flooded pretty big-time, and my crawlspace was full of water, and I was just, "whatever." I guess a death pretty much numbs you to everything else.
The crying has finally eased up, although I do spontaneously sob at odd moments, usually while in line at a store or similarly surrounded by strangers.
The gutters finally got done. The day they came to do the install, it was pouring rain. Those poor bastards spend two-and-a-half hours up on ladders tearing off the old gutters and installing the new ones. They looked like they'd just gone swimming by the time they were done.
I found a pretty wooden box at an antiques store for The Runt's ashes, only to discover when I got it home that it was not big enough for both his ashes and his nuk-nuk towel. I'll keep looking.
There is supposed to be more flooding tomorrow. Whatever.
The Michigan Bulb magnolia tree I planted last year has a leaf on it! One. Leaf. Go tree!