Foster Child

Cosette went home to her daddy on Friday. I miss her. Ever so. She stayed with me for nearly two weeks, during which we spent entire days together and went for countless walks and napped and snuggled. I scratched her belly for untold hours. And I delighted in her every movement.

I do miss her. And I curse my fragile, sentimental self for being so vulnerable to tender feelings and overabundant outpourings of emotion. Just looking at these pictures of her, with her proper little frontpaws, and her rear paws in that strange perpendicular posture. Or her shamelessly comfortable body all curled up on my supposedly off-limits 800 thread count pillowcase and raw silk duvet. I miss the clicking of her nails on my floors. But I despise feeling sad about it. Even in that bittersweet way that nostalgia works.

Sometimes I would just prefer to be Vulcan.