Hiding fandom in the underwear drawer since 1977

It's been quite a while since I updated; it's kind of embarrassing how much I've fallen down on the job of posting. I had all these thoughts about The Pitt (I feel like I am watching/fanning a different show than anyone else and I'm having a hard time wanting to discuss it with anyone because I feel so weird and out of step; basically I love a lot of the characters or events others seem to hate and I feel a lot like Abed in Community: I guess I just like liking stuff) but then things kind of took a turn anyway.

My best friend and little buddy, Blues, seemed to take a sudden turn for the worse last weekend, and by Monday I was worried enough that I started calling the home euthanasia vets that friends had used. We made an appointment for Wednesday morning, but I wasn't sure he would last that long. I spent the next two days just trying to do anything that would make him happy or comfortable, as he was clearly having a hard time. He mostly wanted to be in the sun on the deck, as we were blessed with quite a few days in a row with sunshine, which is rare at this time of year in Seattle. Then I tried to find long things to watch on TV where I wouldn't want to get up and move around so he could sleep on my lap for as long as possible. Aliens director's cut ftw.

He got quite perky on Wednesday morning and yowled till I let him out--in the pouring rain, shaking my head forever at him and his obsession with being on or under his beloved deck--and then the vet came. I had a lot of doubts that I was doing the right thing because he'd been so much livelier, but she pointed out some pain signs and other things (and he was still really wobbly too) and I decided to go ahead. I honestly think he was gone with the sedative before the pentobarbitol even came along.

The house is so empty. I talked to him all day long, we had all these weird little rituals and I picked him up and smooched him dozens of times a day, and at night he was always on my left side and now when I put my hand down there, I have no kitty to pet or tummy to rub. I can't stand not being able to kiss a kitty head. He loved endless tummy rubs and toebean rubs--he was not one of those cats who ask you to scritch their tummy and then try to rip your face off after one minute; you could literally never stop scratching his belly and he would be fine with it. He hated being brushed, but you could play with his feet, his tail, his ears, his nose, and the scritches, and he was fine. Every time I get up, it's just so... There's no kitty greeting me and demanding food. Or winding through my legs and tripping me and nearly killing me. He was sometimes a very challenging cat, as anyone who's been on my friends list probably read over the years (the worst was the bite that almost put me in the hospital when I also had an allergic reaction to the antibiotic), but the good far outweighed the bad.

I don't know what I want to do. I've only lived a few years of my life without a pet. But I have no idea how long I'll be doing okay with my treatment and I'm not sure I'm feeling like looking or fostering anyway right now. It's so lonely, and he was all I had left. He was my sweetheart.