Pinklepurr is our Pinkle Purr
I'm still awake, and have been awake for over eighteen hours, because I don't really want to sleep right now. I'd probably be able to, but I'd feel bad for it. We're waiting for news from my mom; she's contacting a veterinarian that specializes in alternative medicine, and depending on what he says we may need to (and probably will need to) have one of our cats put down.
And yet, I just wrote fic.
I don't know why my mind chooses now to actually be productive. Still, I... feel sad, but I feel okay. I know it won't last, and I'm gonna be a wreck later most likely, but... Right now, I'm okay. Things just feel surreal, like my room isn't quite familiar and my laptop screen is too bright. It's a weird feeling.
She's sleeping right now, by the window in my parents' bedroom. She's not curled up and she's not stretched out, but she looks peaceful and she's getting the sun. I hope it feels nice. She's not in any pain, so at least there's that, but. ... I kinda just wanted to write that down so I remember what it looks like.
This post is so weird. On the one hand, this is the worst way of saying HURR I WROTE FIC ever. On the other hand, this is way more important, and I almost feel like I'm being disrespectful by even mentioning such completely (comparatively) unimportant stuff in this entry... On the other other hand, it's so strange that I've had writer's block for so long, and I have no idea why it broke, even just for now, on the afternoon one of my cats will probably be dying, when I'm running on no sleep. It's just bizarre. The whole thing is.
Pinklepurr, affectionately called Pinkie, is thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. Our older cat, Sherry, who we've had for over twenty one years, is laying on my bed, chock full of energy and staring at me, demanding attention. Dad is "playing wheelbarrow" helping Pinkie get around the house, because her back legs -- her entire lower half, really -- are paralyzed, and then he picks her up and pets her and she purrs like a little motorboat. And I feel sad, and like I'm going to cry, but it's not an overwhelming feeling at all. I feel like it's okay, but I know I'll be sobbing in an hour -- or less, if we get a phone call before then.
I'm not really sure how to end this entry, it got so much more emo than I thought it would. It went off on a tangent because I have no idea how to end this, and I don't know if I'm making any sense. Just -- she's a really good cat, guys. She's absolutely gorgeous, and sweet, and just a really good cat. And she's been with us for a long time. I love her a lot.
Pinkle Purr, by A. A. Milne
Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
A little black nothing of feet and fur;
And by and by, when his eyes came through,
He saw his mother, the big Tattoo.
And all that he learned he learned from her,
"I'll ask my mother," says Pinkle Purr.
Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
A ridiculous kitten with silky fur.
And little black Pinkle grew and grew
Till he got as big as the big Tattoo.
And all he did he did with her.
"Two friends together," says Pinkle Purr.
Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
An adventurous cat in a coat of fur.
And whenever he thought of a thing to do,
He didn't much bother about Tattoo.
For he knows it's nothing to do with her,
So "See you later," says Pinkle Purr.
Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
An enormous leopard with coal-black fur.
A little brown kitten that's nearly new
Is now playing games with its big Tattoo...
And Pink looks lazily down at her:
"Dear little Tat," says Pinkle Purr.
She's a gorgeous girl, and she never had any kittens, but... I guess this is as good as anything.
ETA: It's progressed too far, too fast; there's nothing we can do.
God, she's such a good girl.
And yet, I just wrote fic.
I don't know why my mind chooses now to actually be productive. Still, I... feel sad, but I feel okay. I know it won't last, and I'm gonna be a wreck later most likely, but... Right now, I'm okay. Things just feel surreal, like my room isn't quite familiar and my laptop screen is too bright. It's a weird feeling.
She's sleeping right now, by the window in my parents' bedroom. She's not curled up and she's not stretched out, but she looks peaceful and she's getting the sun. I hope it feels nice. She's not in any pain, so at least there's that, but. ... I kinda just wanted to write that down so I remember what it looks like.
This post is so weird. On the one hand, this is the worst way of saying HURR I WROTE FIC ever. On the other hand, this is way more important, and I almost feel like I'm being disrespectful by even mentioning such completely (comparatively) unimportant stuff in this entry... On the other other hand, it's so strange that I've had writer's block for so long, and I have no idea why it broke, even just for now, on the afternoon one of my cats will probably be dying, when I'm running on no sleep. It's just bizarre. The whole thing is.
Pinklepurr, affectionately called Pinkie, is thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. Our older cat, Sherry, who we've had for over twenty one years, is laying on my bed, chock full of energy and staring at me, demanding attention. Dad is "playing wheelbarrow" helping Pinkie get around the house, because her back legs -- her entire lower half, really -- are paralyzed, and then he picks her up and pets her and she purrs like a little motorboat. And I feel sad, and like I'm going to cry, but it's not an overwhelming feeling at all. I feel like it's okay, but I know I'll be sobbing in an hour -- or less, if we get a phone call before then.
I'm not really sure how to end this entry, it got so much more emo than I thought it would. It went off on a tangent because I have no idea how to end this, and I don't know if I'm making any sense. Just -- she's a really good cat, guys. She's absolutely gorgeous, and sweet, and just a really good cat. And she's been with us for a long time. I love her a lot.
Pinkle Purr, by A. A. Milne
Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
A little black nothing of feet and fur;
And by and by, when his eyes came through,
He saw his mother, the big Tattoo.
And all that he learned he learned from her,
"I'll ask my mother," says Pinkle Purr.
Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
A ridiculous kitten with silky fur.
And little black Pinkle grew and grew
Till he got as big as the big Tattoo.
And all he did he did with her.
"Two friends together," says Pinkle Purr.
Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
An adventurous cat in a coat of fur.
And whenever he thought of a thing to do,
He didn't much bother about Tattoo.
For he knows it's nothing to do with her,
So "See you later," says Pinkle Purr.
Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
An enormous leopard with coal-black fur.
A little brown kitten that's nearly new
Is now playing games with its big Tattoo...
And Pink looks lazily down at her:
"Dear little Tat," says Pinkle Purr.
She's a gorgeous girl, and she never had any kittens, but... I guess this is as good as anything.
ETA: It's progressed too far, too fast; there's nothing we can do.
God, she's such a good girl.