We buried Rebecca last night in the raised flower bed in the back yard. I had thought briefly about taking her in for an autopsy but I decided that it wouldn’t make any difference one way or another and most importantly it wouldn’t change the fact that she was gone. Richard got home before I did and dug a hole, and then I took her tiny little box out of the freezer and put her into her makeshift grave and we both covered her with dirt. I did a lot more crying, on and off, last night, and finally went to bed feeling drained.

It’s still hard to not get misty eyed when I think about her. I automatically do headcounts about once a day, just to make sure someone didn’t slip out a door when we weren’t looking (and even more so after someone else has been in the house) and it takes me by surprise when the count stops at six. I find myself having to take a quick breath when someone asks me how many cats I have, so that the tears don’t come back when I can no longer say ‘seven’. Today I was doing a little better – mainly because I spent the day in the San Francisco office and had other things to think about. But then I read what Richard wrote and it made me cry again, just a little. 14 years is a really long time. He’s not the only one who has a hard time letting go.