Just have to record this:  Received a text last night from Fiona, the literary agent.  I'd sent her the first three chapters of the book a month or more ago.  And heard nothing.  Then I get the text, a text in which she asks for the rest of the book and says I have a lovely style of writing.  

When my friends in the Writers Group praise my writing I think they are being kind.  Despite assurances to the contrary (and it is not good of me to think them dishonest).  Fiona and I have met once.  She is not a friend although she may be one day - so when she says my stule of writing is lovely well...

Lovely!

 Most of the time I'm pretty good.  I lead a busy life, even if most of it is solo.  I practice guitar, yoga, write (well, edit at the moment), look after the animals and the house, feed the agisted horses, visit Richard daily, walk an hour every day.  Don't leave myself much time to be sad.

But not leaving myself much time to be sad doesn't mean it's gone away.  I've been tired, really tired and lack of energy is not usual for me.  And I cry more easily.   Maybe the loss of Nairobi has temporarily tipped the balance. 

Writing this because I needed to say - despite the fullness of life - how much I miss Richard even though I act as though I don't.  I don't miss the dementia Richard and the mess and the confusion and the difficulty communicating, the fear of falling, the smell, the TIME it took - but I miss HIM.  Today, while holding him in my arms, my head resting on his shoulder, he kissed the top of my head.  Like he used to.  That glimmer of the past breaking through the hallucinations and the gibberish and the fog - a kiss.  I wept silently, secretly.  And missed my love and miss him still.

 2020 has not been a good year.  Richard lives in an aged care facility.  I had to put Natalia down and today I had Nairobi euth'ed.  Took both cats in for a dental.  Matisse because his normally foul cat breath had become toxic.  Figured there was a rotter or two in his mouth.  Turned out there wasn't, only plaque and gingivitis.  For Nairobi it was a last ditch effort.  She's been steadily losing weight.  The Mirtazapine was a fraught exercise of diminishing returns.  I hoped she had a mouth full of rotten teeth to explain the anorexia.  She was checked last year and her teeth were fine.  They were today too.  But they had to borrow a crush cage from the pound to handle her.  Couldn't even approach her carrier unless wearing welding gloves.  Sam suspected kidney disease, took bloods and urine while she was out of it for future tests.  But the last dose of mirtazapine, administered .02 of a 1ml syringe in side of mouth, was a battle royal.  We were both traumatized.  How would I dose her with meds on a daily basis.  

Nairobi was 17 years old.  Our tailless tripod.  The little kitten that roared.  Coming in after 20 km riding on a car engine.  She was flayed.  So much so Karen wanted to ring the owners and have her put down but we couldn't contact them.  So Karen pulled skin here, stitched there, swabbed her with antibiotic creme, injected her with a/b's and pain relief.  The owners couldn't pay.  Richard and I adopted her, treated her painful wounds (skin pulled so tight her anus was skewed right), and fell in love.  She was alternately adoring and cranky.  If she had tired of one's attentions and you didn't watch the body language, a swift stab with unsheathed claws soon taught you.  Or she would follow you about meowing piteously, purring like a train, eyes full of love, until you picked her up and gave her a cuddle.

I'll miss her.