Pista

How is it possible to love something to small, furry and surly this much?
Pista is ill; some mysterious irk that is making him lethargic and silent. I knew there was trouble when we were cooking sausages in the kitchen and he didn't even come in to beg.

In other news: time, so fickle, and me, so lazy and helpless...or not helpless?
How to do this? Weber, and work, and B, and cooking and cooing and not even in that order!!
But through the increasing stress and looming panic I am happy. (justpleasegodletthecatbeokay)

Met up with Dezso today. Awkward at first, wondering if he still harboured those same inklings of feelings...but it was fine. He hasn't changed much really, perhaps grown older, maybe wiser, maybe worn a little hard with the difficulties of his life. His son is absolutely beautiful.

B and I had salad and sausages for tea today, and are now drinking Paulaner beer from the bottle, and even though my eyes are stinging from crying over Pista, I can't help smiling at how perfectly we seem to have found each other. Have I mentioned that I'm the luckiest girl in the world?