Thank you all for your kind sympathy on Max's departure. We're still breathing here, I've settled down and gotten over myself in regard to poor Husband's attempt to lighten the mood . . . and, while I would have the little pink boy back in a heartbeat if he could be well and happy, it's so easy having one cat and one dog.
Angus has almost stopped looking over his shoulder when the supper dish goes down. For years, he's had to give up his dish for Max. He's moved to the foot of the bed to let Max have the next-to-Mom's-head spot. He's retained enough of his little wild man personality to shine through, and now I think he's enjoying being an only dog. He bounces around like a little rocking horse and playbows at MiMau, at Husband, at me: he clearly is not aware that he is just as old as his brother who is no longer among us.
The EVENT is that today is my birthday. I have reached an age seven years beyond the 54 that my sister's friend, playing psychic, said would be the end of me. I have lived two years beyond a cancer diagnosis and cure. I've lived long enough to have been a drunk and have seven years of sobriety under my belt.
Life is good.
I'm a lucky woman.
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