Henry left Earth this morning. I picture him surrounded in gold light, somewhere far away with wings… in a place far superior to the lower vibrational land where you and I reside.
I know it’s cliche, but the ones that are left behind are always the ones that suffer indescribably. Like Peanut and I, for example.
While I have been attempting to drown my tears in tequila, it has yet to prove successful. Although, at the rate my tears are pouring, I’m hoping to drown in those soon. Naturally I would have to cry enough to drown Peanut as well so we could both go and catch up with Henry together. Timothy would also like to come along.
Unfortunately, I don’t foresee this happening. But considering the rate of my sobs, I haven’t completely out-ruled the idea yet.
All the days I spent thinking that Henry was having belly problems, I was completely undermining the issue. He had stage three lymphoma. That’s why he was vomiting every day, and looking sad… not eating, in the end. Stomach cancer was slowly taking over. The worst kind. The kind with no visible signs, no bumps saying “have me checked”… etc. Continue reading
They think Henry has cancer. He won’t eat. It’s very possible I will not be in these parts for some time.
I guess we all have our breaking point.
Namaste blog tribe.
For the past few days I’ve fallen off the scene desperately trying to nurse Henry back to health. As most of you are likely aware, Henry hasn’t been well for a few weeks now.
I believe the problem was brought on when he caught one of the disgusting, feral cats that roams Sunnyside after it made the unfortunate choice to jump in my yard. There was meowing, there was scratching, there was cat blood.
I’ve brought Henry to two vets now and tried to explain what I think is causing his illness. They essentially ignore what I say and send me home with antibiotics.
While I have aimed to take the vets’ word for it, Henry doesn’t want to eat anymore. He still has diarrhea, and he’s still throwing up.
I’ve blogged through a lot of disasters since 2009, funerals, divorces, elections, floods… I can’t really handle Henry being sick. It shuts me down uniquely.
To make matters worse, I’m flying to Bermuda on business in a few hours – I’ll be out of the country all week. I have arranged care for the babies and even another vet visit, but that doesn’t seem to dry the slimy trails running down my cheeks in utter panic.
I don’t usually ask for anything from our ship of readers, but a whispered “feel better Henry” will go a long way at this stage.
Thank you, and love to you and yours. With a bit of magic… a “Henry feels better” post will shortly follow.
The last three Halloweens have been hectic. For example, Exhibit A and Exhibit B of village shenanigans – and the ever so popular double whammy parties of 2009.
I consider Halloween to be extra special for many reasons. This year, I walked three miles to work (since Sandy ate the subway), three miles back… and then I had to take Henry to the vet again. Settling into another country hasn’t been a simple task for my poor little baby.
I know the feeling.
So I came home a bit glum that this Halloween wasn’t quite holding a candle to my last three… when something completely surreal dawned on me.
Trick or treaters. Continue reading
Yesterday Timothy, myself and two small creatures wandered across the Queensborough Bridge. That’s right blog tribe, the puppies totally did Manhattan.
As suspected, they were very pleased to wander through Turtle Bay to the delight of Henry and Lily dancing for pats all the way. Manhattan residents don’t try to look tough like Queens locals. They’re more than happy to praise adorableness.
The puppies were stopped by two new friends before we even crossed a single avenue. So we decided to take them to Central Park.
Central Park up around 110 Street on a Monday might be someplace for the babies to explore. Dead-guts-center visiting of Central Park, near the zoo, as autumn colors crawl to bloom and peepers come out for Saturday strolls… not so much.
To be honest, children and tourists were not the greatest predator of the park. Nor were horses pulling carriages or yappy yuppy dogs being carried by mumsie – oh no.
Squirrels. Squirrels, I have come to learn, are the puppies archnemesis. There are no squirrels in Australia, my friends. I have gotten many-a-hoot from observing my Aussie travel companions snap shots of bushy tailed rats. While I’ve never had any personal beef with squirrels, I don’t think I’ve ever taken a photo of one either.
I suppose it’s how some of my Aussie family feels about Kookaburras. Alas, I digress.
The puppies hate squirrels. They want to eat them. I believe it has something to do with their history of rat catching. Not with me, I mean like bloodline stuff. Although Henry did catch a rat once when I was living in Queensland. It ran out of some rubbish left over from renovations… gross.
In closing, the puppies love New York City. Check. I’m going to go back to working on a book. Hopefully I can trade it for a check to buy a farmhouse. Then the puppies can have a yard to catch all the squirrels they want.