Sam was the only one of them who ever found peace. She was always desperate to find a spot on someone’s lap. Finally my grandmother came from England to stay in the cottage (where my mother had once locked up Cinnamon; he howled all day; I rescued him and stood for him when my mother called the vet to have him put down; and the vet refused. He died in my arms, sort of, a while later and was buried on the driveway where he liked to stay, waiting, waiting for whatever it was he lost before he wandered into our house in New Jersey, a stray.)
They restored and reconstructed it for my grandmother, putting in a stairway to the upper room which you previously could only reach from an old, rotting, outdoor wooden stairs. The put in a bathroom and some carpeting and a lot of old furniture. Sam stayed there with my aging Grandma, for some six years; on her lap. When my Grandma died she returned to the main house, and my mother got her. Put her down for peeing everywhere. I can only imagine the scene. I don’t let myself get hurt by it. It would be a victory for my mother.
I’ve already talked about the others, I believe, quite recently. How Dorian committed kitty suicide by going up to the main road at the bottom of the property and getting hit in a second by a car crossing the one lane, blind bridge. How the Boston cat, Seiji, did the same thing by chasing cars on the main road at the top of the property in New Jersey; I am quite sure he was trying to hitch a ride home. but Daisy never did get the kitty abortion, of course, and these were the lives that were created. I had wanted her to have kittens, and didn’t get her spayed, but I wanted her to do it AFTER I had my own first child.
Life has a logic of its own.
Which abortion VIOLATES.