Got to work this morning to learn that my friend & co-worker's cat died overnight. The cat was already at the vet being treated so my friend didn't find out until she walked into the vet's office and they told her. Apparently they don't have a night attendant so I guess the vet clinic didn't find out until this morning themselves. So my friend couldn't be with her cat at the end. Unhelpfully I burst into tears, because I am completely vulnerable to sad animal stories, and it's worse for my friend as she's already dealing with depression and a crumbling marriage to a no-'count dude.

Poor old Fusspot has been on poo strike because of the weather (the cold and snow are just unending here). This morning, just as he was finishing his breakfast, he quit the room with a look of craven need and did what he had to do (good dog, he missed the rug this time!) I cleaned it up, as one does, and went about my business. I was texting a friend while on the bus and she said that pooping in the house was (1) a dealbreaker for her, and (2) that it was definitely a sign that Fusspot is really old and verging on incontinence and that I was going to have to start thinking hard about my next move. I pointed out that the Fusspot is 100 years old and the weather has been unforgivingly awful and that personally I don't blame him for not being able to hold it (it had been 2 full days for godsake - apparently he was planning on holding it until spring) and (insert ragestroke here) I was not sending my dog to the gas chamber for the occasional unscheduled indoor poop. Shit happens.

His tail is up and wagging, his appetite is good, he's still walking around under his own steam and he's still keen on life. When that tail can't flip up and wag, that will be a sign, but at this point he's still pretty sure the world was made for him for him to enjoy.