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omt: Monette

So, I think I've figured it out. If I stay busy, even if just a little bit, I can keep from being upset. Keep from worrying that you're not going to come home from the vet. I feel so guilty, kiddo, that if I just taken you to the vet sooner, played on my hunch that things were truly not right with you, you wouldn't have the liver damage. I'm fine until I reach a pause, those transition times when I'm not doing anything, when I'm scrambling to find something to fill my thoughts, something to help me stay positive about your health.

You're coming home; I was positive of that when I held you at the vet this morning. No matter how vague the vet is, you're going to live through this. So I refuse to let horrid thoughts enter my head, that you aren't coming home, that I'll get a call any minute saying your body just gave up, that you'll come home but only live for a few more months. I have plans for you. First, your third birthday, but ultimately, my fortieth birthday. Come on, you can share twelve more years with me, right?

This transition is the hardest, going to bed, trying to keep from turning my head with my usual search for you, wanting to give you your goodnight kiss on the head. Why do you have to be relaxed to sleep? I'd give anything for a borg regeneration chamber right about now.

Luna is going out of her mind. We're all going out of our mind. Sleep well, catface, I'll see you in the morning. I'm going to try to visit you twice today, since Jason is out of town and can't come see you.

Heal. I need you here.

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