Last night I said goodbye to Boo. My familiar, my fat cat, my little beast with rabbit paws. She magically arrived on my balcony 10 years ago, whined until I let her in, and then never left. She chose me, and I’ve adored her and protected her for a huge part of my life.
I love my Dad. He can be gruff and grumpy, but also incredibly cute. He’s had an ancient Nokia for five years and finally decided it was time for an upgrade.
He wanted an iPhone 4 because a business associate had one. “It’s the only phone I’ve ever seen that makes sense,” he said. So I taught him the basics of using the iPhone over the weekend.
This is a man who doesn’t use a computer and has never sent an SMS. He teases my mother about her Facebook addiction. He doesn’t quite understand what my husband and I actually do every day for a living.
Yet I’ve never felt more proud of my Dad than when he sent me this yesterday:
After a trip to the hospital that was less Grey’s Anatomy and more Nurse Jackie, I spent the past week in bed not doing anything interesting except annoying my husband with a nagging cough. Apparently there are degrees of bronchitis and it doesn’t “just go away”.
I believe bed is for fun and sleeping, not convalescing, which is why in my sneezing, sniffing, stomach-crunching coughing misery I still felt vaguely amorous. Maybe it’s that whole affirmation of life thing. I certainly felt like dying.