There's a Stargate SG-1 episode by that name, when O'Neill is stranded on a planet after the stargate is buried in an explosion. Based on the movie character, you would expect him to commit suicide, and he considers it. But a widow explains that after she lost her husband, she wanted to die at first, but slowly, by the 100th day, she was ready to at least try to live again.
Since December, I haven't seen much of the cats. We came together for meals, yes, and playtime, but afterwards, each went to a separate corner of the house and slept or stared out a window or did whatever they were doing when they weren't fighting over me. My narrow bed contained only me.
I thought this is what it will be like now. These aren't my snugglers. These aren't my people-oriented furbabies. Those are gone. We're going to share space in this house until, you know, The End.
In the last 10 days or so, the cats have returned to old patterns. Skamper has resumed sleeping in my lap during the day (he just joined me at the computer and is lying between my arms as I type). Skuttle is torn between GloveLove and being stand-offish. Miss Kitty is chasing anyone who will run.
I counted. Today is the 110th day since Simon journeyed to Aslan's Country. They must have been watching that episode with me and decided we've mourned long enough. Time to resume at least trying to live again.
I hear you, kiddos. Begin next chapter.
Push button. Receive bacon.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
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