Goodbye, Kitty
I can only avoid crying by consciously refusing to think about Sam. I am not allowing my mind's eye to see his lifeless body sitting on the table at the veterinarians' office. I am twenty-five; he was eighteen. I can hardly remember a world without him. I am haunted by the food and water dishes absent from their habitual corner.

Interregnum
Death seems to be a booming trade this past week. Pumping Sam full of poison was a mercy; poor Mrs. Schiavo's soul finally went to Purgatory fifteen years after her mind died; and the Holy Father, who was Bishop of Rome longer than I have been alive, passed, his sojourn in Purgatory to be exceptionally short, I am sure. Yet I have been so preoccupied helping a friend... who has actually asked me not to mention him at all (whoops) prepare Comerica Park for the opening day of baseball (golly, I am barely able to contain my glee), I have not had time to properly mourn or ruminate on death's "illimitable dominion over all."