So. Abbie (c. 1988-2005, aka Silky Girl, Gray Bear, Miss Nab, and Pinky Tongue) died last night. Her last day as a cat on earth was probably what she would have wanted it to be. She spent most of it on the end of the couch nearest the gas heater, with sun streaming in the windows. About 5 PM I gave her her favorite snack, that foil pouch of gooey stuff. She loved it so much, she'd stand on top of the washing machine and purr like a dynamo while I served it, all the while smacking her tiny lips audibly. I closed the laundry room door and went out to see friends, leaving her to gourmandize in private. When I came home around 11, she was gone. She and I went "'way back, " as they say. When she first came to live with us, she hated everyone, biped and quadriped alike. Gradually, over years, she began to like me OK, but never stopped biting me routinely, right to the end. And she adored Phil Waldorf, it's important to note. (Dunno whether she bit him, too. I'll have to check.) Abbie and I did love to read the Daily Office together. Sometimes she'd be in my lap, other times just on the table expecting to be petted in rhythm with the liturgy. It was a thing we did, joyfully.

Whenever a critter dies, it seems I'm doomed to re-visit the loss of every one who's gone before. Between 4 and 7 this morning I had to grieve all over again for T.K., Steve, Flash, Licorice, Daisy, Odie -- who am I overlooking? a whole bunch of guppies, plus Kermit and all those guinea pigs! -- even poor Calista, who was such a transient member of our household. With a new twist on an old theme, I had to pre-grieve for the loss of Bo and Samson, who must be given away in a couple of months. All of the dear, loving and loved creatures who have inhabited my daily life. I sit on the stoop in front of the door to pet heaven and sob my heart out.