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Writing has always been my personal form of therapy. Maybe I will write a novel about Petey, or at least a short story, at some point. The problem, now, is that I simply can't do it without falling into a mess of emotion. Perhaps that's not a bad thing, but on the technical side, it is rather difficult to write through eyes filled with tears. That's a half-joke. I also deal with things with humor, and as the shock has started to subside, humor has started to take over. I probably annoyed everyone at work today with funny stories of Petey when he was alive.
One brief one I'll share with y'all.
I had to call in "sick" to work one day because of Pete. Before he even came into my life, I had set an old laser printer in the window above my bed after it broke down. I have no idea why really, nor do I have a clue why I left it there except that it was big, not the easiest thing to move, and I'm a pack-rat ... hard to throw anything away. The thing weighed about 50 pounds. Petey had always completely ignored it. It didn't get in the way of his being able to get in the window and survey his kingdom outside, so he just coexisted with it; I often wonder now what he thought of it, probably nothing nice. One morning, however, for no particular reason I can fathom, he decided to climb on top of it, or at least that's what I assume since the thing had managed to stay there with no problem for two years and then suddenly fell. The thing was top-heavy as well, so with his moving around, it dropped ... onto my head, knocking me unconscious. I can tell you it's a really weird feeling to "wake up" to unconsciousness. That is, I remember this vague feeling of intense pain as the corner of the printer struck my head, then bright colors, then nothing for I don't know how long. I only know I woke up around 9, an hour and a half after I'm supposed to be at work, with Petey sitting on my chest watching me, the phone ringing, and a big object lodged in my skull. It was my mother calling to check on me. The people at work had called me and getting no answer had called my mother. She was panicked, of course, but finally got through. I was mostly incoherent, so she insisted I go to the ER, which I did after she arrived to take me.
When I went to work the next day, none the worse for wear and suffering no real damage, I got to talking with people about what happened. I mentioned Petey and the fact that I had changed his brand of food recently. He didn't particularly like it, and I did eventually change back. They all made good-natured fun and decided he was trying to tell me something with the printer fiasco.
Change my food, will you...
Of course I know he wasn't consciously trying to hurt me, and maybe he perhaps had an "oh shit" moment after it happened, sitting on me to make sure I was okay. (He also was much more cuddly in the days that followed, which is saying something since he was very affectionate anyway.) Just trying to get my attention and not aware of the potential consequences...
I will laugh at that for the rest of my life.
In any case, I did want to let you know you offer good advice, but I should mention that "write a novel" is sort of an expression. Back in my BBS days, back when the transfer speeds were so slow you could read the text in a message as it appear on the screen, I was often accused of "writing novels" rather than posts.
This note should offer some idea of why. :-) Every response I want to make is lengthy, but y'all have been so nice, so comforting, and so essential to my getting through this, that I don't want to overdo it.
Thanks again.
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