Hammett was still alive this morning. He is having another very quiet day, lying on the seat of my desk chair, or on the bed, or in his bed next to the radiator. He is quite wobbly when he walks. He went into the kitchen and I heard a bit of slurping, maybe water or a bit of the gravy from the food I continue to put out each day. He hisses and growls when I give him his prednisone, and last night he gave me a little notification-style chomp on the hand, but he otherwise seems content. If he shows any clear sign of distress, I will take him to the vet for a merciful departure from this life. As much as I don’t want to wake up to find him dead, I hope he will die at home, to spare him the distress of another trip to the vet.
During my own breakfast today, I spent some minutes trying to figure out if it was Wednesday or Thursday. I’m keeping the place dark and warm on Hammett’s behalf, and I am not listening to music. NPR is on at times. One day seems much like the other.
I decided it was time to examine my mustache. When did I last do this? I sat down near a good light with a little mirror in one hand, tweezers clutched in the other, and saw I had a good start on a beard. As time goes by, I increasingly understand why you see otherwise elegant older ladies with a three-inch white chin hair. It’s just hard to see all those little details. Also, in the greater scheme of things, does it really matter?
In the afternoon, Tom and I took a walk. There were even fewer people out than yesterday.
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