Michael came home on Friday to find that Bucket had died. We don’t know what happened but are waiting for an autopsy. I saw Michael cry for the third time ever. Bucket was the most magical cat I’ve ever known, and most people who met him thought the same thing. I can’t absorb it. It hurts too much. That he’s gone forever. Forever. Trying to understand it is like grasping at the edges of an oil spill.
Everyone’s been great on Facebook, texting me, taking me out places to distract me, bringing flowers. Michael and I are mainlining dumb sitcoms. I bought some yarn. I’d like to put up a lot more photos, but I can only handle a few minutes of thinking about it at a time. I have to only check FB a couple of times a day, schedule my breakdowns where I can.
Jen suggested that writing about losing her Jack was helpful for her, so I’m trying. Since I’m crying from texting with her, I figured I could at least get an announcement up. Something’s got to help more than crying when I find fur on my scrubs, crying when I pull his food bowl out of the dishwasher, crying when I walk in the door and don’t have to worry about letting him out.