Years

The rug in the hall is recent. Moby would have pissed on it. As much as I miss him, and always will, I do not miss his affinity for pissing on any rug. It's still funny, but not fun. Zeppo bathes there, and it's often scrunched up, having been used as a launching pad. As Eleanor once bunched up the rug as well. I have a lot of rugs used for Moby's purpose, that I washed often, and are now excess. We can leave them down in the bathroom, in the hallway, and it's nice, but also a little sad. I'm deeply practical, and the sentimentality still abrades a little.

How can I miss the stench of old cat-piss? I don't. Not really. But, oh, Moby. Such a good friend.

Zeppo. Taking a bath on the sofa now. Lovely black cat with a humorous streak. Eleanor behind me, gently purring.

Five of six days to myself, and I long for retirement. This is good, I want this. I have to adjust my resume on the job search site, to reach for the job I want. To write from home, or take short trips to a school or site occasionally. There is time, I can wait for the right one for... well, years.