Buttercup is to be euthanized within the hour. We’ve had that sweet little girl for just a few weeks shy of sixteen years, which would make her approximately eighteen years old. Emmet made it to just two days shy of his seventeenth birthday. I’ll say this of my mother: she takes damned good care of her pets.
Ev and I said our goodbyes last night. He seems to be taking things considerably well. I think it helped to be upfront with him and just stick to the facts, rather sugarcoating the whole affair with fluffy euphamisms and/or mystical ramblings. It took my parents a good two years to finally admit that the evil preschooler-mauling chow-chow they’d buried in the backyard was actually dead instead of “just sleeping”. (I lived in terror of the day Mr. Sulu would return to finish me off. I swear, that creature had to have been half chow, half bear, and half pig. Chowbearpig.)
Bye-bye, Buttercup — my canine Power Puff Girl. I miss you already.
I’m not one for sexy and sophisticated cell phones with features I’d be hard-pressed to use outside of a Doctor Who scenario, particularly when I can’t even seem to figure out the phone I have, which came free with the plan five years ago and boasts such features as the ever-useful, ultra-low definition camera, one-way Facebook access, speed dial, and annual alarms that sound every 5 minutes over excruciating 24-hour periods on March 15th and August 7th and 25th — and WILL NOT GO AWAY, no matter how many times I attempt to edit the calendar feature. (I’m also locked out of saving any new events.)
The upside is that the birthdays of Bruce Dickinson and Gene Simmons never go unobserved. (Happy Birthday, Bruce.)
As for March 15th, all it ever says is ‘D,’ so I don’t know if it was originally set to mark some significant historic event or just by accident. I’m going to rule out the Death of Caesar, because I’m pretty sure that last automatic download back in ’12 included an upgrade to the modern Gregorian Calendar. Death of Emmet, perhaps?