The autopsy had found nothing (colon completely empty) but neither did the pathology/toxology/histology. They examined tissues, organs, even her little brain. So I'm plagued by imagined images of knives in her soft warm tender fur for nothing. Everything in her world came through me, so even if I did nothing wrong, her death was my fault.
Her little wooly head, that would always bump me genuinely tenderly in the face. Her smiling in the hammocks that Kendra will never use. Her suicidally stupid urge to pull at handles of hot cups of tea resting above our laps.
She was never a good jumper - she wanted so much on that glass shelf of her sister's, but she never even seemed to try. Yet she did jump on the window when I removed the box in the last year, so she could have. And she always jumped over (on top of?) Kendra when they were running for food, which was so funny and cute and esp. because she seemed a stolid wombat otherwise, except in that sheep-jump. And then they would trot side-by-side to the food place. Where Kendra refuses to eat now, as she refuses the 1-year-in-the-works special ceramic station.
Kendra now need parmesan on everything, if she eats it at all. I can't afford the 300 percent fat Recovery vet food, which is the only thing she decided she would eat now (that and venison - just like last time, when she only ate another vet food which she now refuses, just like all the other food I bought). It has to be held in a glass bowl in my hand, so it still looks like it's out of my hand.
I will try hard to shut up now.