Well, this has certainly been an eventful week. The governor of South Carolina confessed to cheating on his wife. Farrah Fawcett died, then Michael Jackson. Today is the fortieth anniversary of the riot at Stonewall, the so-called launch of the modern GLBT-rights movement. All of these events have been but minor blips on my personal radar.
Thursday afternoon, Spot got violently ill. He vomited, and vomited, and vomited. There were puddles of yack from one end of the apartment to the other. Finally the poor guy collapsed in one of those puddles. I gently lifted him out and cleaned him up. He spent most of the last two days sleeping. I thought he might die. Then, this afternoon, he started behaving like his old self again.
Through all the upheavals and changes of the last six years, Spot has been my one constant. I've got a good family, and wonderfully supportive friends, but Spot is my rock. If he didn't make it, I don't know what might've happened.
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