Arlo the Cat
The last pic of the roll is a mid surgery shot of a lid mass removal with an eye crying blood clot tears. The rest of it is totally tame, so don't be scared away.
I am slow to write yesterday's post because the night found me at Linneman's Riverwest Inn playing a tribute to Arlo the cat, belonging to the venues namesake Jim and Marty Linneman. Arlo the cat was only 2 years old 16 years ago when his owner turned him loose into the mean streets of Milwaukee. He took refuge sneaking into Linneman's on Locust, rubbing against the legs of the musicians on the open state and climbing the curtains behind the performers.
When animal control came to take him away, they told the Linnemans He'd likely meet his end before long on account of a too full shelter and not enough homes calling for cats. Marty and Jim wouldn't have it, named him after Arlo Guthrie, and loved him as if he been birthed from their own human loins. Last week, with no notice, Arlo began to pant like a dog, gums gone white, and not an ounce of energy. Sadly I was 500 miles away on the edge of the greatest lake and Dr Feiring my beloved relief vet, helped the old guy pass. I'm told it was an hour before the Linneman's could, through sobs, bring themselves to allow that last medicine for Arlo.
The songs I sang on stage, late in the night, called out, "there's no use in asking for me to stay, there's no use in asking I'm going away," and "what am I supposed to do now, without you," and all the universal sentiments of loss and acceptance and the inability to accept and on and on.Thankfully the day was also filled with enough bubbling over joy and slow mindful cutting and curing and sewing, to endure all the flood of sadness. I'm in my office and the ark doors just opened to begin another day.
I'll keep you posted. Lots of love. Happy Wednesday a day late.