CBR-III #1: City of Dreams & Nightmare, by Ian Whates

Oh, City of Dreams & Nightmare, how did you let me down? Let me count the ways:

This is a story that opens with a brutal murder, committed before the eyes of the Chosen One. Since there's no real reason offered to care about any of this, I can only assume it's supposed to matter because someone died. Lives are cheap in fiction, however, and as a reader, I need more in order to engage with the characters. Here we're barely given characters hastily sketched on paper genre stereotypes and given a heavy dose of telling instead of showing.

The titular city is built into a mountain, a hundred levels tall with the wealthiest at the top and the poor stuffed underground in an overused metaphor that's given nothing fresh or new here. It's filled up with improbable tech and weak magic (they have escalators...and they call them that. "Calling a rabbit a smeerp" is a problem in spec fiction, but can be wisely employed, and this would be a good time), and all of it's badly explained by an author who clearly has a weak understanding of what he's trying to explain.

We're given an assassin with a reputation for sadism because no fantasy story is complete without one of those, but we're never given a reason to believe he's all that evil or sadistic. He engages in some light torture, but in the grand scale of fantasy worlds, he doesn't do anything especially objectionable. He met up with one of his contacts--a prostitute who had been recently roughed up and robbed by a john. He laid out what he needed from her, then proposed a trip to her place. When presented with her injuries, however, he backed out, gave her the money to recover, and hunted down the guy who hurt her. If he were the sadist we'd been told he is, he'd have gotten a thrill out of seeing her all roughed up, and then he would have hunted down the man who hurt her because he has to take care of his contacts. I guess he was set up as an anti-hero, though, and no one wants their anti-heroes to be too anti-.

We're also given a Chosen One with an inexcusable ignorance of his own city, because the author wanted a reader surrogate to get him out of the 'As you know, Bob,' trap, but he still indulges in enough infodumps to distract from the weak story. The narration is also peppered with terms and descriptions that don't fit the characters who are supposed to be narrating, and it jumps around the timeline often enough to make keeping up annoying and break the reading spell.

I was prepared to be far more gentle with this book when I set out to write the review. There are the seeds of good ideas here. The kite guard, with capes that allow them to fly, are interesting. The big bad deployed a virus that was capable not of subverting one's will to its whims, but rather of fundamentally changing the victim so that he or she wants and believes what it wants. That's terrifying...

And yet the seeds of that good idea were destroyed when a little convenient magic was deployed that neatly wiped out the whole thing and reversed its effects. All of the main characters were wearing such obvious PC halos that there was never any genuine danger or suspense. Injuries were handed out when they were convenient to the plot, but there was always a handy healer nearby to make sure the injuries didn't get in the way. There were lots of deaths, but only to nameless, faceless paper dolls that didn't mean anything. The bad guy never had any motivation to explain why he was willing to murder to achieve his goals, and in the end, it was revealed that there was no compelling reason why the entire book had to happen.

This book has a few good ideas, but it never rises above rote genre stereotypes. It's a sad example of everything that makes people dismiss fantasy as a shallow, childish, indefensible genre. I'm not going to defend this book. I am going to ask that if you're not familiar with fantasy, to ask around to find a better book to start with.

Contemplating the Cannonball Read

I've signed up for the cannonball read this year for so many reasons. Because it looks fun, because I haven't read a book cover to cover since I got my new job, which is shameful, because I'd like to wake up this blog...

I have a stack of three new books beside me: The Forest of Hands and Teeth, The Strain, and Heat Wave. Heat Wave was purchased on a lark, and I'm honestly hoping for candy in book form. Plus, it's a mystery, and I don't often read mysteries. I'm thinking seriously of combining the cannonball read with the 10/10/10 challenge. Read 10 books in 10 months (I guess it was intended for the year 2010, but see no reason not to carry on) in genres and styles you don't usually read.

I also thought seriously about trying to read my way through this list, just for the lulz: Bodice Rippers: 21 of the Most Ridiculous Romance Novels...EVER. This includes such gems as The Very Virile Viking, Zombie Moon, and a romance novel in which in the main love interest is actually a dinosaur. A FUCKING DINOSAUR!

However, reading this list also revealed to me that Harlequin has an 'Accidental Dads' series, and that hurts my soul.

And that would mean that almost half of my cannonball read books would be absurd romance novels, and I'm pretty sure that would cause some lasting psychological harm.

I will, however, be making a little effort to read outside of my usual comfort zones.

I'm a Slack-Ass

My life has gone absolutely nuts. I've got a new job (which is good: lots more pay, lots less stress) that doesn't really allow for any reading during lunch (where I've gotten most of my reading accomplished). I'm the Oklahoma City National Novel Writing Month Municipal Liaison, and I've barely been able to keep up with my duties for that. I joined the local costumer's guild, and when I didn't show up for two meetings in a row, I was punished by being elected vice president. The strangest recent event, hands down? I've got a girlfriend. Seriously. An awesome, geeky, understanding, adorable gamer girlfriend who is totally tolerant of my own geeky proclivities and thinks I'm pretty, too.

Ridiculous. Whose life did I accidentally steal?

I actually have reviews from at least two books that I've needed to write for months, and I've been working my way through another folklore book. It's excellent, but it's a dense read, and there's not a lot of charging through it.

In the meantime, here's a picture of Rhapsody in her new pimp coat, Symphony chillin' out, Remy doing her thing, and myself, Rhapsody, and Symphony all hanging out.

#12--At the Bottom of the Garden, by Diane Purkiss

I love writing. I love the moments when all of the flotsam and jetsam in the back of my mind suddenly coalesces around the characters inhabiting the murky layers between my conscious and subconscious and a new story comes pouring out. Those ideas often send me tearing off on long research jags, because even if I write fantasy, there are still rules to follow. Everything might come out warped, but I've always found that the strongest fantasy is still grounded in reality.

The past couple of years, though, I haven't written much. I've barely even made stabs at editing older works, and my inspiration has been sadly lacking. And I think I've finally hit on why.

My brain works best when fed a steady diet of fairy tales, folklore, mythology, old wives' tales, and urban legends. And I've been neglecting to feed it. As a remedy, I'm going to alternate books covering just those subjects with my other reading. I've got a long list to go through, and I can't tell you how happy I was when I dove in at last.

I started with At the Bottom of the Garden, which professes itself to be "A Dark History of Fairies, Hobgoblins, and Other Troublesome Things." Diane Purkiss pushes the boundaries of what can be defined as a "fairy" nearly beyond the breaking point, starting with Lamia, nymphs, and djinn.

If you're already knowledgeable about fairies and other mythology, this could be an interesting read, but I would never recommend it to anyone new to the field. Diane Purkiss tried to reference modern books and movies, but couldn't always get the details right, including saying that the only Sith in the original Star Wars trilogy was Darth Vader, and made easily refutable errors, like claiming Disney based their Tinkerbell on Marilyn Monroe (although the truth couldn't easily be found on Snopes at the time, I'd still expect better).

As her history approaches modern incarnations of fairies, her tone grows increasingly derisive, and her superior tone (including occasional asides to make sure you know how smart, rational, and very cool she is) grows more and more difficult to ignore. On numerous occasions, she makes reference to modern fairies reflecting the older fairy tropes by accident, since it's obvious most people using fairies have never spared a moment for a scrap of research. But this is what pushed me over the edge:

The Irish fairies had a posterity too--a dignified one of folktale and careful, sceptical [sic] folkloric research, and a more dubious one of runaway post-Romantic pseudo-Celtic New Age posturing and calendar pictures. In fantasy writer Marion Bradley's fearsomely long Mists of Avalon, King Arthur's old enemy Morgan Le Fay, Morgaine the fairy, is reimagined as a radical feminist of the Seventies, battered, bruised, but always Very Strong, always in touch with her menstruating self. She meets from time to time with the Even Stronger Queen of the Fairies, who is even less embarrassed about her sexuality and fecundity. But somehow the whole thing never rises far above the ruck of sword and sorcery, a genre so utterly debased that little can be said for or even about it...

I don't have any problem with her disliking Mists of Avalon, though I do find trashing an author in your book to be immature and unprofessional, and I cannot respect anyone who will dismiss an entire genre. And I have to go back to Tasha Robinson's answer from the AV Club's Q&A about Pop Culture Sacred Cows:

But what I absolutely can't stand, and what puts me into a fighting mood faster than anything else, is people blanket-dismissing an entire genre or subculture or area of effort, especially with the always, always, always-uninformed "I'm not interested in that stuff because it's all the same." So here's my pop-culture sacred-cow statement: Every genre is deep, nuanced, complicated, and diverse to its knowledgeable fans. That doesn't mean every genre is for all tastes. You don't have to like industrial or classical or conscious rap or Chicago blues or Beat poetry or fantasy novels or reality TV or whatever else. You aren't even obligated to try them, much less to make the effort to immerse yourself in them enough to tell the classics and the keepers from the trash. Life is short, the world is big and full, and there's nothing wrong with walking away from things that don't speak to you. But people who get snotty or self-righteous about it, as though their personal tastes reflect some sort of immutable reality, steam the hell out of me. Ignorance isn't attractive, but saying "I've never really gotten into [Westerns, opera, FPS games, whatever], and I'm not really interested" isn't nearly as ignorant as lumping together every example of a genre as unnuanced and unworthy. People who do sound exactly like caricatures of '50s parents, squawking about how Elvis and The Beatles are all just stupid noise.

I've tried to say it better, but she took the words right out of my mouth. My annoyance would be equal if she had been bashing romance, rap, or even some subgenre I'd never encountered.

My poor impression of Ms. Purkiss deepened as I drew towards the end of the book, which I continually had to force myself to keep reading instead of hurling across the room. Her distaste for the modern version of fairies was obvious, and my willingness to accept her version of events faded quickly.

For example:

...many of us can only feel nausea when our daughters and goddaughters invest int he fairy image. At my son's Hallowe'en party, one five year old came dressed as a pretty fairy; her foamy pink skirts stood out like a wound among the ranks of matt-black ogres, vampires and Dark Lords of the Sith. The mothers hissed, 'Who's the little girl in pink?' No one actually said 'Urgh!', but everyone, like Tim, looked sick, and her own mother was apologetic. Any self-respecting North Oxford mummy would rather her daughter was a vampire than a fairy.

I can't help but wonder if the mother in question was only badgered into apologies when confronted with Ms. Purkiss's attitude. She also devoted an entire passage to the owner of a fairy shop in Australia who wouldn't allow her to take pictures inside her shop, and refused to bow down after the author whipped out her academic credentials. So, obviously, the professional thing for her to do was trash the woman in question in her book.

She finally wrapped it up by drawing parallels between aliens and fairies, and a lot of talk of the X-Files, even reproducing a little fanfic. She took one last shot at the speculative fiction genre with, "I do not think I can argue that these stories come from fairy sources; I would be greatly surprised if science-fiction writer...had made much of a study of European folklore."

By the end, I didn't feel her work deserved anymore respect than she was willing to give so many others, and I'm glad to be done with her book. I definitely won't be picking up anymore of her work.

Up next: Thirteenth Child

#11--Magic Strikes, by Ilona Andrews

Urban fantasy, particularly any variety can that can be summed up by, "So-and-so is a kick-ass woman who's totally different from all those other kick-ass women because she's got this one cool power no one else has called yet has to solve a mystery/murder/other crime and probably fall in love along the way, or at least get laid," has become a sub-genre that I love to hate. Partially it's because the market is saturated right now. Partially it's because so many of them seem like retreads following the paths of Diana Tregarde and Anita Blake. Most of them take place in a world where the normal person doesn't know anything about magic for an assortment of reasons, and half the time when I see the cover or read the blurb on the back, I kind of quietly gag and slide the book back into place on the shelf.

So why do I keep reading books that fall under that description? Because about half the time, even if it isn't a great book, it's still a fun read, and the other half the time, I feel like whoever is in charge of writing those blurbs on the backs of the books needs their ass kicked. And occasionally I pick up a book that rises above the genre conventions to give me something I really, truly enjoy.

I came across the Kate Daniels books because I've made a habit out of scanning the shelves at the bookstores for new authors. I stumbled across Magic Bites not long after it first came out and picked it up. I'll give any new author at least two books to really hook me unless the first book is really terrible. Magic Bites left me keeping an eye out for Magic Burns, and that second book left me more than eager for this third one.

I'm actually hesitant to describe much of the plot simply because boiling it down into a few quick sentences cannot do it justice. Anything I can write will probably leave anyone--fan of the genre or hater of the genre--rolling their eyes. The problem is, on reading, this book rises above the stereotypes with excellent characters, a tight, engaging plot, and an enjoyably unique world. Ilona Andrews knows her folklore and mythology. She does her research, and she does an admirable job of weaving it into the fabric of her world and her characters without disrupting them to show off how smart she is.

If you're looking for an engaging read, I definitely recommend these books. Each stands alone very well, but it's worth starting from the beginning. If the first book doesn't impress you overmuch, give it through the second, because I've found them to grow in depth, breadth, and craft.

I'm going to look forward to the 4th book in this series, and Ilona Andrews has a new series starting soon. I know I'm going to be snapping that up as soon as it's out, too.

Coming up next: At the Bottom of the Garden: A Dark History of Fairies, Hobgoblins, Nymphs, and Other Troublesome Things

One More About the Animals

Remy is my girl. Considering how the last month has gone, I feel like I should mention now that she is very much alive and well.

I adopted her a little more than three years ago when she was about 12 weeks old. She's always been a little aloof, preferring to go about her business and come to me when she wants pets or attention. She's more vocal than Keegan ever was, though, always willing to let me know when she wants food, wants love, or wants me to open the bathroom do so she can do something disgusting like drink out of the toilet.

She'll hop into my lap occasionally, but rarely settles down, and she'll come sit on the bed with me, but her all-time record for time was about fifteen minutes.

She and Keegan kept their distance from each other, though Keegan would sometimes pin her to the ground so he could lick her head, and she'd purr and lick him back until someone took it too far and they ended up wrestling. Mostly, they kept to themselves.

So it took me a little while to realize that she wasn't taking Keegan's disappearance well. She started searching for him and mourning him while he was still at the vet's and I was still convincing myself that he'd be coming home safe soon. I didn't connect the way she cried in the hall or sat on my bed and yowled with worry for Keegan. I didn't quite realize that she was coming to me for more attention than ever because she was lonely.

Honestly, I relished the attention and was happy to give her all the love she wanted. She patiently sat with me while I cried, and I failed for almost two weeks to realize how much she was suffering.

It dawned on me bit by bit, and I started wondering what I should do about it.

Then, on Saturday, I had one hell of a dream. Someone's cat died, and they carried it out of the vet's and just dumped it by the side of the road. I was walking by, saw the sad little body, and gathered it up to...I don't know. It made sense at the time, like anything in a dream does.

This cat was an orange tabby calico, and when I picked it up, it came back to life. I immediately rushed it into the vet, which looked like no vet's office I've ever seen, and the people inside expressed surprise about the now living cat that they'd just sent out with its owner to bury. My response? "I have no idea what you're talking about. This is my cat...Symphony. So...how did this other cat die? And can we make sure that doesn't happen to this cat?"

I woke up on Sunday with a vaguely urgent feeling, like there was this cat that needed me. Remy still wasn't doing terribly well. She was eating and drinking, but not much. She wasn't losing weight yet, but I was getting worried about my girl.

I had to go to PetsMart to get Remy more food, so I stopped to look at the adoptable kitties just out of curiosity. No orange calico tabbies. Just as well. The idea of a new kitten made my eyes tear up.

But there was one who drew my eye. She reached through the bars to grab my fingers, but didn't use claws. She just pulled me close, and she walked back and forth to be petted. She purred and meowed at me. I made myself look at the other kittens, and while they were lovely and adorable, that one kept drawing my attention.

I left the adoption area to pick up the cat food, and almost paid for it and walked out. But I stopped and asked if there was someone who could unlock one of the cages and let me meet a couple of the kittens.

The one I was looking at had a sister who was admittedly prettier than her. Prettier and more psychotic. When the sister was lifted to see the other kittens, she growled and struck at them, then remained agitated, even clawing the poor girl in the face. The one I was looking at, however, growled a little when presented with the kittens, but then nestled into my arms and played with a little black kitten from the next cage over without a protest.

She came home with me, and I named her Symphony, for the cat in my dream. She immediately knew that was her name.



She's part Siamese, part ragdoll. When I brought her into the house, Remy came up to sniff at the box, and didn't even bat an eye when the box meowed. They sniffed noses though the holes in the box, and when I left Symphony out to see her new home, Remy only kept a close eye on her.

When Symphony got too close, Remy growled or hissed, but never made a move at the new baby. Symphony backed down immediately during every non-confrontation, and now they're pausing to sniff at each other, and Symphony is trying hard to convince Remy to play with her.

Remy no longer paces the house crying. She's eating well again, and she's gone back to being her old self. I sort of miss the Remy who wanted lots of affection from me, but if this means she's happier, then I'm definitely happy.

Symphony loves to be petted and get attention. She adores being held, and she follows me to bed every night to curl up beside me. When she plays, she doesn't use her claws, though she loves to chew on my fingers, which I'm having to discourage. She loves Itzl, the other dog, and plays with the puppy we're fostering.

She's fit into the family smoothly and perfectly. And her markings aren't orange tabby calico, but she is sort of pale brown/grey calico.

My heart is still bleeding over Shika, and I don't know if I'll ever really stop hurting over losing my Keegan. Remy still searches for him, even though she's much happier now. There are holes where Keegan and Shika belong, but Symphony has found her own special place here.

Don't Wanna Sleep

I'm sitting awake right now, doing stupid things to avoid something I really don't want to do: going to bed for the first time knowing Keegan isn't going to be there.

It was hard enough without Shika and her ever-cheerful presence, but I had my Keegan right there, snuggled up against my side. I made it through those first hard nights by wrapping an arm around him and resting a cheek against his fur. He loved the attention, nestling up close and purring.

I haven't had him for three nights, but this is the first one where I can't drift off telling myself he's going to get better and I'm going to get to bring him home soon. He's gone forever, and I'm going to have to having a queen-sized bed to myself.

Remy, my other cat, has been nothing but a doll. She's always been more aloof than Keegan, which was a good thing. How could I possibly provide two cats that clingy with the amount of love and affection they'd need? She's still her usual self, coming to me for attention and meowing to let me know she wants to be petted, but then going on her way. She doesn't really settle down in my lap or curl up on the bed, though she'd done more of both than usual last night and today. I think she knows how badly I need her right now, and she's providing as much of it as her feline dignity will allow. Thank God she's a healthy cat, and thank God she isn't the type to pine after her lost friend. She and Keegan were never close, and honestly, I think she likes being the only cat in the house.

Remy is my Remy-doll, my Baby-doll, and my Darling-girl. She likes to keep her distance, but she also likes to keep tabs on me all the time. She's not always visible, but she's always close. I picked her out as a kitten because when I reached out to pet her, she immediately started to purr. I figured she'd outgrow it, but it's been three years, and she'll still purr anytime I pet her.

I don't know what I'm going to do now, without Keegan to greet me when I get home or to take possession of my lap. There's no Shika to try to steal my lap from him, either, or to try to share it. He won't be there crying at the door when I take too long to get in.

When I took him to the vet on Tuesday, I let him roam around the examining room, and he'd still walk over any time he saw my hand and throw himself into rubbing his cheek against my knuckles.

He's not going to be there to cry at me anytime I open a can, either.

For some reason, I always kind of had it in my head that Keegan would live to be about twelve years old, and that anything after that twelve would be a bonus. It was only seven, and I feel cheated out of five years with him. I had started making plans about having to make that terrible final decision for him, and I thought I'd go see him this morning, and if I hadn't gotten the miracle I kept hoping for, maybe after I visited with him after work, I'd stop trying to force him to make it through something he obviously couldn't survive. I feel cheated out of my last two visits. I feel horrible for not being there with him when it ended.

I miss him so much, and every time I start to think that I'm done crying now, I find some reason to start up again. My boss is so wonderful and understanding. I tried to go to work today, but she sent me home. Being home alone, feeling the emptiness of the house without Keegan or Shika in it, was kind of terrible, but maybe something I needed to do, too.

I went out and bought a pint of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla and Strawberries ice cream. They make versions of it on a stick, and I bought a box of them some time ago. I'd gotten into the habit of just keeping my computer in my room (wireless is a wonderful thing), and I'd get home from work, grab a bar, and go stretch out on the bed to do my usual after work internet stuff. Keegan always loved the hell out of ice cream, but he'd usually be pretty polite about waiting until I was done. Not with those bars. I had to be careful to keep him from reaching out and snagging some, and I always let him lick the stick clean, and he'd purr the whole time. I know it's silly, but I buried my boy with a whole pint of the stuff just for him. I buried Shika two weeks ago with bacon. I hope they enjoyed it.

When he'd try to steal my ice cream or sneak into my lap when it was full of other things or worm between me and the computer or me and a book, he'd always move really slow, head down, and purr really, really loudly, like maybe that would make me let him get away with it. He probably never stopped that because more often than not, I would let him.

He'd also do this thing when he wanted to be petted where he'd sort of drop his head to one side, eventually rolling onto his shoulder and flopping on that side. One time, in one of my past apartments, he was doing that on the bathroom sink while I was otherwise occupied. He dropped over to the wrong side and rolled into the sink, landing on his back with all of his feet sticking in the air. He was so fat he filled the whole thing up and almost couldn't get out on his own.

He also used to like to hop into the bathtub while I was in the bathroom for any reason so he could look for any fresh drips of water. One very cold winter morning, my mother called on her way to work to ask if I could turn the water in the tub onto a drip before I left to work so the pipes wouldn't freeze. I did so and failed to notice that the plug had fallen in the tub.

Well after I got home from work, so maybe ten or eleven hours after I'd turned the water on, I went into the bathroom and Keegan followed. The shower curtain was drawn, and he just hopped into the tub without looking and splooshed into the surprisingly deep water. Apparently ten or eleven hours of dripping equals a pretty full tub of icy water. He hit the curtain with all four paws, then fell back in, and I jumped over and pulled the curtain to the side (being certain to stand aside so that he'd miss me when he flew out of the tub. And fly out he did, liberally splashing all four walls and the ceiling of the bathroom. He then walked around the house, shaking each wet paw miserably and flicking his sodden tail, looking pathetic as only a cold, wet cat can.

He never did dare jump into the tub again.

I was a little surprised, since his first encounter with water in the tub didn't turn him off. He was still a kitten, and he'd finally gotten strong enough to jump up onto the edge of the tub in my apartment, which was actually quite a feat. It was one of those old, very deep tubs, and one of the few good features of the apartment (especially since it came without shower curtain rod or even faucet--you turned the knobs and the water just poured out of a pipe that stuck out of a hole in the wall. No shower, either). I was taking a bath, and he jumped up to check it out. I was sitting in the water with my legs drawn up, so my knees were sticking out. Keegan decided he needed in my lap, and he carefully stepped out onto my knees. Very, very slowly, I lowered my legs, so his feet were gradually engulfed in water. When he noticed, he fled as fast as he could, giving me all of the deep scratches I so richly deserved. That didn't stop me from laughing my ass off.

Keegan did always have a funny relationship with water. I mentioned before that he wasn't weaned when I found him, and after I got him onto solid food, he hadn't really conquered drinking water out of a bowl. I took him with me on the weekends to visit my mom so Eris couldn't kill him while I was gone, and he was sniffing curiously at a bowl of water, wondering what to do with it. One of our ferrets at the time, Sami, walked by and did what any ferret would do: she immediately dunked her face in it, then walked away.

I could see the light bulb go on in his head. That's what you did with the stuff! He plopped his face right into the water, then jerked back, shaking his head and snorting. But when he licked his lips, he finally discovered water, and he liked it. He started out just lowering his head until he dunked his nose, then pulling back to drink. Later, he learned to reach out and gently dip his paw in the water to figure out where it started. He still almost always dipped his nose before he could start drinking.

Shika's loss and the subsequent hole in my life both took me by surprise. I was perfectly aware of what a hole Keegan's loss would tear into my life, but I hadn't dreamed it would be so soon. Even when he seemed so bad at the vet's, I kept telling myself: it has to get worse before it can get better. Maybe he's just about to get better, and he'll get to come home tonight or tomorrow. I was trying to prepare myself for the worst, but that preparation didn't stop how hard it hit when my late night call from the vet wasn't to tell me about the miraculous improvement I'd been hoping for. It didn't make it break my heart less to go and pick him up so I could bring him home to bury, and to see him so still and cold, and feel his very soft fur without any life left.

My Remy is proving to be unbelievably sweet. My always aloof girl has been stretched out beside me, not quite touching, but occasionally reaching out with one paw to brush my leg and remind me she's there, and murring softly to get my attention so I'll scratch her ears. I think as soon as I start moving, she's going to be gone, but I appreciate the extra companionship she's offering now. I know a lot of people don't think animals are smart enough for this sort of thing, but I think she knows I'm upset and lost. Maybe all she wants is to use it for some extra affection, but I don't care. She's so precious to me.

But I started to move, and just like always, she's taken off. I've got to eventually face this first empty night. I've got a big stuffed orange cat that a friend gave me because it reminded her of Keegan. It's a poor substitute, and probably not something healthy for me to cling to. But it's a little bit of comfort, and right now, I'll take what I can get.