James (a fictional name) sat across from me, quietly weeping over the death of his 16-year-old cat. James had raised his furry companion since the kitten was only a week old. He bottle-fed the little ball of fur, rubbed its belly to help it defecate, as a mother cat would, and kept it warm againstContinueContinue reading “Grief and the mundane”
Exploring Shelley's musings.
A Taylor'd Life 