Yesterday passed in a kind of numb blur. I poked around on the internet and, next thing you know, it was getting on towards bedtime.
Bobbi had been napping because she had to go in to work for a bit after midnight, and she was getting up as I was going to bed. Seeing her putting coffee on threw me into the morning routine more or less on autopilot. I topped Rannie's bowl up with kibble, opened the cabinet where the canned geriatricat food was kept, pulled a can out, divided it onto two plates like I do every morning, and dissolved into tears when I realized what I'd done.
Every day for more than two years, while I've sat typing at this desk, I was always looking out the corner of my eye to see if a tiny, three-pound cat needed help getting in the litterbox. For two years I've kept an ear cocked for the sound that meant that Littlest Cat was ready to be lifted up to the desk now, please. What time I've spent writing was in the interstices between acting as home health care aide for an elderly cat, and I suddenly feel only half-employed.
I need to get out of the house for a bit.