Bugsy died in my arms this morning.  He’d spent the night with me, moving from lying beside me, to lying behind me, to lying on the end table which I’d cleared for him since he’d become enamored of the window air conditioner.  He’d purred.  He’d drank water which was just for him.  He’d suffered.  When he’d wanted to leave the room I had let him. 
( Read more... )