Seventeen’s a good number. She almost made it to her Gotcha Day, March 10. I would’ve had her for 17 years. As I’m writing this, she is sleeping by the sliding door with her head resting on her water bowl, too tired to finish drinking. I watch her chest rise and fall with every breath,
There’s a huge time gap that’s mostly because I get stumped on how to continue. It turns into analysis paralysis and then… nothing. Good ol’ nothingness. That dreamy state where you can’t do something wrong if you don’t attempt it. The blissful void where you can’t worry about something if you don’t think about it.