youngraven: Mo isteach (Orion Rising)
But for a few people (many of whom were told out of necessity - such as the ones at work), I said nothing about the passing of my cat. I prefer to do my mourning in the solace of my own house, and as much as I know people want to Be There, I usually need space and time before I can accept that care. Don't mistake me: this is never about whether I deserve it, or am grateful, or feel compelled to Look Strong. I'm an introvert; I'm hard-wired for solitude. When I'm injured in any way, I've got to have time alone (and by 'alone', I mean by myself or with Shaddow - nobody else) in order to sort myself out. Them's the breaks with me, like.

She went into hospital on the New Year's Eve, and she died a week later. We'd go to see her every night. Some nights, she'd seem to rally a bit, and we'd think we'd be able to bring her home and maintain her. Other nights...we felt otherwise. By that Thursday, we realised there was nothing to be done. She was never going to well enough for us to keep her comfortable in her decline, and that was that. 

It's been three weeks, but I'm still palpably aware that Orion Rising is missing some vital being. I wish I believed in ghosts, then I could trick myself into seeing her wee spirit rattling about. I do not, thus I cannot. I don't know whether, ultimately, this is bane or boon. She'd gone sixteen years of age. Per this site, she was 84. I don't know how much more I could or should have expected of her. I suppose within all of us is a five-year-old who refuses to take 'mortal' for an answer. I need to believe that we did everything we could do, but I'm not sure. 

On the last day of her life, she bit one of the vet's assistants. Ever my Irascible Beancat. 
youngraven: (Default)
My empire for a pithy opening statement. Janey me. Ain't rocket science, this.

So... )
So there's my weekend, what did you do with yours?

The section heads are all titles of songs. Thursday's Child is by David Bowie, Black Friday Rules is by Dave King and Flogging Molly, Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting is by Elton John and Bernie Taupin, and Every Day is Like Sunday is by Morrissey.
youngraven: (Mr Shamoose)
I think I've mostly opened up this entry pane in order to watch iTunes fill in my music blank for me. 'Cos that does take such a fuck lot of effort.

It really gets up my nose that I can find the Irish verses to this song nowhere on the Internet. The only words I've been able to latch on to have been 'airgead' and 'agus'.

'Agus' is a useful word, whereas 'airgead' is the root of all evil.

Seamus is here. Seamus is here. I don't recall letting him in. I don't recall seeing his furry ginger form slinking (who am I fooling? This cat does not slink. He is the size of a Lear jet) into the room. Yet, here he is, and preventing me from feeding my Macintosh, which is now showing me a red bar.

'Danger'.

Sort of thing.

Put up your hands if you think I'm pissing about and avoiding some important task? Ha ha ha. That should be round all of you, I imagine.

Seamus is a Licky Face. He's prominently featured in the icon I've chosen for this one.

I really must apply myself to the task of set lists. Hrm. I was going to do a bit of wash as well...rather, a bit more. Ah well. Perhaps my cat can lick them clean. Right then, BLEH. No more of that.

Set. Lists.
youngraven: (Mr Shamoose)
I do have other entries to write, but because I can't be arsed at the moment...:D I'm offering a meme.

Borrowed from rowangolightly )
youngraven: (orion rising)
Earlier this year, [livejournal.com profile] shaddowshoes unearthed our sunroom, and we transformed it into the pub we now call 'Margaret Murphy's'. We held our first party in it last February, and it was a grand success. So, here are a few photos from Margaret Murphy's.

Witty cut tag here )
youngraven: (slinky)
...literally.

So. [livejournal.com profile] shaddowshoes just leapt (yes, leapt) into Margaret Murphy's. The sound of his black and white feet thudding against the stone floor was enough to startle his cat who had been sleeping on a green and wicker footstool. She sprang from the footstool with enough force to flip it entirely over.

Whee. Plonk.

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