Tuesday, July 16, 2002
The trip to Atlanta yesyerday was postponed a week when I discovered that one of the friends I was going to see has some sort of nasty stomach flu. So, instead, I just stayed home and listened to CDs and slept through the heat of the day. I did nothing of merit, nothing whatsoever. I did get take-away egg drop soup and egg rolls for lunch. We had many glorious storm clouds towards sunset, but, sadly, no storms.
Then, in the evening, I got a phone call informing me that Meg had died. Meg is a cat I got as a six-week-old kitten back in April 1985, so she was seventeen and not in good health, besides. Meg hadn't lived with me since 1992, but I saw her often. To say that she will be sorely missed is a grave understatement. Though it rings a bit sentimental (I think when one has known a cat for 17 years, a little sentimental can be excused), here's a short poem by H. P. Lovecraft, written upon the death of his cat Sam Perkins:
The ancient garden seems tonight
A deeper gloom to bear,
As if some silent shadow's blight
Were hov'ring in the air.
With hidden griefs the grasses sway,
Unable quite to word them —
Remembering from yesterday
The little paws that stirr'd them.
Today, I have to begin Chapter Eleven.
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