Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

My apologies for the, ah, dyspeptic post immediately below.   I’ve had much on my mind.

Most immediately, so far as the Family Robbo goes, last week we had to have Jenny, our elderly (18 y.o.) yet beloved cat, put down.  Thanks to a leg-paralyzing blood clot that led to an emergency trip to the vet, we discovered that she was in an advanced stage of heart disease.  Nothing to be done about the disease.  Painful, frightening and ultimately futile treatment options for the immediate symptoms.  The quality-of-life math firmly dictated that we had no choice but to end it.

What an evening.  Mrs. R and I were there until the end, holding and petting poor old Jenny as the doc administered the shot.  FWIW, she was calm and purring until the very end.  I like to think that from her perspective, she dozed off contentedly and simply never woke up.

Sigh.  That’s the worst part of owning pets.

Except.  Mrs. R and I are adults and have had to deal with this sort of thing before.  What made it worse this time was that this happened three days after we dropped off the younger gels at summah camp.  The middle gel in particular has always been devoted to Jenny.  We felt we couldn’t possibly convey the news while the gels were disporting themselves about the wilds of southwestern Pennsylvania, and I spent the remaining week and a half dreading the inevitable moment when the M.G. asked, “How are the cats?”

Well.  Once the gels got the news, it was about as rough as I’d imagined it would be.   And who wants to see one’s children suffer?  On the other hand, I couldn’t help feeling a certain, well, satisfaction that my gels should have such feelings.  The grief that they displayed surely was indicative of the genuine love that they felt for the old cat, and that cannot be a bad thing.

Indeed, although I don’t believe that animals go to Heaven simply because they do not have human souls,  I firmly believe that God recognizes the mutual love between pets and their owners, and that somehow, in teh great celestial calculus, such love is not forgotten, but instead is factored in.

Not that I’m a sentimentalist, but for teh gels’ benefit I am going to order up a small memorial stone reading, “Jenny, 1995-2013” for placement in teh Port Swiller Garden.  Mrs. R doesn’t know this yet, but I’m also going to use this as a justification for the purchase and placement of a St. Francis statue in teh garden as well. D’oh!

Oh, and lest you think things are too bad at Port Swiller Manor, I should inform you that, even as I type, Mrs. R and the gels are off somewhere in teh wilds of suburban Murrland to interview a couple of kittehs for possible adoption into teh family.