Don’t write for an audience, just write.

I have to remind myself of this a lot. Particularly when it comes to this blog for some reason.

For the past few years, I’ve really struggled to maintain it. I guess in part, it’s because I don’t really have a set theme. It’s just a blog, where I write down my thoughts, and talk about life and things in general, and for some reason, that’s just seemed really boring lately.

My blog turned six in August. I missed that. I missed it’s fifth birthday too. I’ve kind of stopped thinking about life and things by how long they’ve been running, or how old they are. I think I’m getting to an age now, where every year just reminds me how much older everyone I know is getting. Including myself.

I’m enjoying getting older, except for the wrinkles. That shit’s totally not okay. Or the fact that I look older than I am these days. When did THAT happen? I’m so used to being the youngest. Youngest child, youngest parent, youngest in my group of friends, and suddenly I’m not that person any more. I’m middle aged!  Holy crap! That’s the last time I ever, refer to myself as middle aged. Ever!!! What does that even mean?

A couple of people on Facebook the other day were talking about age, and discussing how old they felt. I tried this for myself, and, I still truly think of myself as little older than 15. Except on those mornings when I wake up and my neck is aching and I feel 80. There’s very little in between for me. Some days my body works really well, and others I’m reminded of how poorly I have treated it, and that I need to do a crapload of work to get it back up to speed before I end up in a freaking walker with a hunchback.

Some mornings, I’m pretty sure I’m already in a walker with a hunchback. Except, I’m a dancer, so I have great posture! Right?  Right.  I’m just gonna keep telling myself that.

The problem is though, that life just carries on. We lost Greebo a month ago. I took him in for dental surgery and they told us that his kidneys and liver had failed. His heart rate was elevated, and two days later, he was gone. I haven’t really been able to face talking about it, because I still can’t really believe he’s gone. We rescued his mother from a young couple who couldn’t take proper care of her, and had let her get pregnant for a second time. She was not quite a year old. I overheard her telling someone that they were going to have her put to sleep – while pregnant, because they couldn’t deal with more kittens.

So I took her. She gave birth to her litter almost right on Siobhan’s lap. Seven little kittens. All half feral I think – she was a country cat who “didn’t need to be fed because she’d catch her own”. Greebo was the one we kept. We held him as soon as she’d cleaned the afterbirth off him. He was my boy, my big ginger wild man who did what he wanted, fought everything, humped our rottie’s head and loved me. He really loved me, that cat…and I loved him too.

I turned his face towards mine and pressed my forehead to his. One minute he was there, the next he’d gone limp in my hands, and was gone. Just gone. I’m glad I got to be there for his birth, and to be the last face he saw when he died.

It hurts still to talk about, so I don’t.

The vet called Ollie today to let him know his ashes are waiting to be picked up, and it just bought it all back to me. Growing old sucks. I expected he’d have so much more time with us, but the trip here was really hard on him, and he deteriorated right in front of us over the past eight months. He would have been 14 next February. People keep telling us that’s a good age for a cat, but I just remember all the other cats who live into their 20’s and I wish we’d had more time.

I miss his face so much. I miss his meowing at me and headbutting my face and hands, and legs. I miss him slyly sneaking himself into my lap and purring so loudly I can’t hear the tv. I miss him sitting at my feet looking up at me hopefully until he’s fed. I miss seeing him in the courtyard, and having him talk to me and wend through my legs while I hang up the washing.

He was always my constant companion. My best friend. It seems so much more real now, now that we’ll get him back. I wonder if it will take me another ten years to let him go, like it did with Mabel. I already know what I’ll do with his ashes, it’s just a matter of when that will be possible.

Goodbye my Grievous bodily harm, my weebs, my boy. You were never just a cat to me. I’ve said it now. I guess that makes it true…and I’m not just going to look down and see you waiting at the door for me to notice you and let you in.


4 thoughts on “Don’t write for an audience, just write.

  1. Reading this made me want to hug my kitties. I’m so very sorry for your loss. They truly are family, and their absence is a huge hole that can never be filled. I pray you find more than enough love in your life to surround that hole so the edges don’t hurt so much.

    Btw, your title and first few paragraphs have made me decide to post something I thought no one would care to read. But it’s a memory for me, so I’ll share it.

  2. I’ve been at my wits end with the cats this past few weeks… and now I just want to crawl in to bed and love on them.

    And you’re not middle aged… yet.

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