We spent sixteen years of our married life packed six to a bed – Richie, me, and four dogs. The cats had their own suite. We assemble ourselves like a puzzle each night, a dog pack in a cave, snuggled together, nose to arm, furry foot to furry back (the dogs’, not Richie’s).
It almost killed me. (I am nothing if not dramatic)
Then there was Poncho, our cat, the infamous Pinhead from my Vacation from Hell stories. Shortly after we returned and I ripped Poncho a new one for being such a pain during that trip we found out he was very sick. We put him to sleep last week. The house was empty, except for us, for the first time in eighteen years. It was so sad, so silent.
It almost killed me. (I am nothing if not consistent)
Whoa! Richie apparently is pretty damn sick of that name. He also was not crazy about a future in which he would come to me to say, "Matthew Macfadyen just took a dump in the living room." I mean, the guy did win a BAFTA award.
The problem with the second name I suggested, Colin Firth, was similar. Although the name is shorter in length than Matthew Macfadyen and therefore easier to use in a declarative sentence such as, "Colin Firth is a good dog," there is now the fact of the Academy Award to be considered. Have some respect.
Next post...the search for Fitzwilliam