dead brains don't dance

ramtops and I had a small whiskey each (Bushmills 10 yr old malt, what we call a "restorative", because it is) Tuesday night after Aliss died.

Yesterday morning, as I stopped in the kitchen before going out to dig her a hole, I spotted that my glass, abandoned on the worktop the night before, was loaded again: somebody (no names, no packdrill, Iggy) had very neatly refilled it, hardly a drop outside the glass. It must have just happened as Mac had been down not long before to make some tea.

Whatever it means, I remembered as I was processing this photo that the glass (and the glass Mac used) were engraved with images of cats by Iain, of Olive and Iain (of Nemorez) who bred and sold us Aliss a few months over nine years ago. It never occurred to me last night, as I picked them out of the cupboard, but it seems fitting now, somehow.

Anyhow, Aliss' body now rests under the ground at the end of our garden, zipped up inside an empty 10kg sack of Basmati rice, with a piece of string and a strip of cloth to guard with her eternal vigilance.

We had tickets for a gig last night: Show of Hands at St Mary's church in Marlborough. Both exhausted, we still went as getting out of the house felt like a good idea; we're glad we did, as Steve, Phil and Miranda were as fine as ever and a church as venue allowed for acoustic wanderings around the audience to superb effect. Feeling much better, if still battered and weary, we drove home on a pissing wet and windblown M4 to the three remaining Tribe members and bed.

Bada used to crawl under the covers on cold nights (or when she just felt like it), as did Zool (and her tongue: don't go there) before her, but last night, for reasons unexplained, Lilith and, later, even Iggy ventured under the duvet briefly. It's a time of change, I guess, and the social dynamic of our home is in flux, but it's all very disconcerting to say the least.