After The Runt died, on April 21, at first I was in shock. I mean, two-year-old cats don't just drop dead, right?
Except when they do.
I was in shock, and then mourning, and the next few weeks after that were a horrifying scramble of tests and test results and road trips to specialists and bad bad news, when Little Girl was diagnosed with restrictive cardiomyopathy and we had to learn a New Normal, she and I.
We got the pill routine down and had more tests and she went back to hunting birds and I went back to the daily stuff of life, except that we are both missing The Runt. Very much so.
And I was thinking the other day, of how hard I am grieving the loss of The Runt. Frankly, I am grieving his loss just as much as I did for Rocky, which hardly seems possible. I mean, I had Rocky for fifteen years. The Runt was still practically a kitten; how could I possibly miss him as much as I had missed Rocky? How could the grief be this strong?
And then, over the past weekend, I read this:
"Sometimes love is for a moment
Sometimes love is for a lifetime
Sometimes a moment is a lifetime."
Yeah. That's it.