Sunday was a good, but emotional day. Following some "drama" with nurses regarding Granddad's NEED for a niccotine patch -- yes, the dying have needs, too -- and well after we knew for ourselves that he was comfortable again, Grandma whisked me away to the countryside for a breather. We travelled down a steep and narrow road in the river valley and across an old single-lane bridge to see newborn horses at a friend's farm. A particularly randy little paint let me kiss him on the nose. He was four days old.

Half an hour later, as we arrived back at the hospital, there was a call from home. Harmony had given us four kittens, one a boy, all well-coated silver or brown tabbies with white, and all over 100g. (Stirling is dad, a repeat of our M litter that gave us the disappointingly naked Man With a Heart On.) One of the girls, I was told, has a Pillsbury Dough Boy laying across her back. "Pillsbury" would be an appropriate name; this is our P litter.  

"Grandpadad" (I couldn't say Granddad as a child) and his wife of 34 years "Grandma Kathleen" are probably the reason why I am such an animal lover. Their "farm" never gave a financial profit, just billy goats with no milk, horses to ride, too many rescued dogs over the years to remember, cats that provided more love than rodent control, a few chickens for eggs and donkeys to keep the coyotes away from the yard.

Sunday night, after leaving my sister and Grandma at the farm to get some sleep, and tucking my exhausted mom in at the hotel, I entered Granddad's hospital room for the last time. I was there with one hand on his cheek and the other on his chest when he took his last breath at 1:30 this morning. He was 83.