Last week I was forced into the lonesome task of putting down one of my Cats, Izzy. Izzy could not have been younger than seventeen and I imagine she was really eighteen or even older, which made her close to ninety in the human way. Of course I mention that to make myself feel better, like it justifies doing the right thing.

Actually, it was the only thing I could do for my friend. And as I sit here typing this I am being pestered by my other friend Dudley whose age is a firm sixteen years and seven months. In the past I would say something shitty to him and suggest he go fuck with something else (now lacking a someone else), but I’ve become a better person. I’ve often become a better person during my life, but I usually backslide soon enough and return to my usual perdition bound attitude.

I detest sentimentality. Mawkish words are even lower than the celebrity who calls a press conference every time s/he does something halfway decent. Every time we bring a pet into our lives we know how it will end. Yet we do it anyway. That is one of the few truly good qualities found in the human race and it is for the best that we do not analyze it.

For me, the hardest part of life comes when the small good moments have ended. The little things, like a conversation filled with laughter, when everything is at its best and when you feel that you could have died happy. But you go on, back into the dull world of fronting, rude show offs, waiting and pain. Our friends do their best to make that better.

Anyway, this one is for Izzy. Here’s a picture of my blue-eyed friend, from about ten years ago; taken back when she smoked two packs a day. (She tried vaping, but she told me that was to smoking what masturbation is to group sex. Yes, our Isabel was an Earthy soul.)

Leila