(moved from previous blog)
Yesterday I got my first job rejection email of the summer. I immediately went upstairs to cry in bed. I would have sat in the dark and listened to the most depressing song I have, but I couldn’t find my iPod, and Faith Hill’s “Where are you Christmas?” only really makes me tear up during the music video. So I curled up next to Buster, who has now taken full control of my bed since I’ve been away house sitting. I’ve heard how some pets can sense when their owners are depressed, so I was hoping that Buster would offer me a little bit of TLC. This was not the case. He glared at me with his good eye, apparently pissed that my bed-shaking sobs were disturbing his sleep and that I had not provided any snacks for the waterworks matinée.
Instead of consoling me, he turned over on his back and hit me in the face with his tail until I agreed to pet his stomach. Buster always looks like he’s just given birth. He used to be incredibly overweight – his stomach would swing back and forth, sweeping the ground as he walked across the street. Sometimes he sounded like a broom. In his old age, he managed to lose the weight but not the extra skin, leaving him with a loose, furry gut.
Somehow, his tough love ended up making me feel better. Slightly less emo, I scooped him up and carried him downstairs for his post-breakfast feeding time.