Previously. More Foster effluvia keeps turning up and going on the pile. In addition to the booze and the Gawker book among others, at least two now-invalid employment contracts (from different companies) and various sealed personal correspondence. First person who makes it up the elevator can have the lot! Rachelle?
Done. Sending over billy.
My nephew Elliot does a pretty great job of summing up how I’ve felt this week.
Two weeks ago this Friday, my family had to put our black lab Ruby down. She was 14.5 and, though I’m still not completely sure of what the specific complications were, it was time.
As you can imagine, this was a difficult day for all of us. I worry about my parents and brother, their first Spring without her. And Cain? Poor Cain had to start his life as a street cat before we rescued him only to loose the only nightly snuggle companion he’s known. And I think I have problems…
And so it goes…
Ruby,
Remember when I was scrawny and ornery and I was determined to ride you like a horse? To attach super soakers to you and other contraptions that only my young mind could dream up? You were okay with it and that’s why I knew we were good. You played fetch and you ran and you wagged and you shook. And you put up with more children pulling on you and calling you “boobie” than most of your contemporaries.
You were a good dog. And, as William said, “things will just not be normal at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”
David Foster Wallace had a heavily marked-up copy of Mary Higgins Clark’s Where Are The Children? (via) (via katiebakes)
I dont know how i feel about this. Shocked?
