Trixie is twelve years old this month. We tend to forget she’s getting on a bit, she’s such a good little trooper. We took her to the vet this morning for the second time in her twelve years, because she won’t eat. It might be only a surfeit of voles or that dead bird she found and ate. She has some cat medicine to settle her digestive tract, and we have instructions to watch her carefully over the next couple of days. Crossing fingers.
there are more important things going on
more distress and more poignant stories
but when the Mistress of Pasta is unwell
sadness seeps into the silence
the light in the sky seems a little dimmer