There’s no good way to put this…

Neil Gaiman’s dead cat story made me feel sad in a good way.

I like aminals a lot.  Cats, dogs, birds, fish, goats, but not horses (horses are smelly crazy bastards on the whole,), I like aminals a lot.  I think this is because aminals don’t judge.  They don’t care if you’re wearing shoes that were bought at Boyes, or that you’re a bit overweight, or that you wear glasses, and they certainly don’t mind if you put your jumper on inside out.  Aminals aren’t callous, they’re innocent.  They give you love if they think you need it, and they look after you and all they really want is food and love and to have a laugh.  And isn’t that what everyone wants, deep down?

I could really do with a pet right now.

It reminds me really of when Spike died.  Spike was a sheepdog-spaniel cross.  He was tempremental and would run away to court lady dogs, to the extent of climbing out of his kennel like Spider-man.  He was crafty, ambushing rabbits when other dogs were chasing them, and he had a mean temper with other dogs, and he had no interest in tennis balls unless another dog wanted them, but he also just wanted to mess around.  And then he got a brain tumour.  And all he could do was walk around in circles and crash into things.  And the vet gave him medicine to relieve the pressure but in his last days, lively vital Spike was a faded quiet version of himself who wouldn’t come out of his run.  And I sat with him when he was so cold and he didn’t acknowledge I was there and I asked him not to die, even though I knew it was the best thing that could happen to him at that point.  And before the day was out, he died.  And it wasn’t fair.  Because although he was old, before that brain tumour he had been so alive.  He could run faster than dogs who were only a third of his age. But that’s life.  It’s full of unfairness.