Bill of Margins

We manufacture the affection of domesticated felines and canine companions, to a certain if not perfect extent, gelding them, to use Woolf's charming outlets with gerunds as opposed to participles, off the top of my head I believe I am not in error, though willing to be conditioned a goose of pedagogic density for its distraction; I know arrested development is a major hand in these nurturing attachments. After Joey's first block, I had hoped it was not chronic, and when the pet transporter dropped him off home, when I opened the carrier my pretty love leapt into my lap. "Did you see that Frank?" I asked. Oliver never did anything like that, nor any other cat I assisted to raise; he sat with me for hours, poor Joey, and I coaxed him to try to eat the urinary tract meat, what a mother that, heating it, hiding the medication. Over time I came to believe I had beaten it, believed that the first block was unique to the circumstance of his young adult meddle, because Dr. Andeer yanked my chain a little. "You love this cat," she exclaimed, every time I rushed him in over the least symptom of straining, and no, there was no block, no bladder crystals, just symptoms of spring allergies, but would it have been better to exhaust all my resources now, and when he was eight or nine or ten or twelve, have nothing left to then relieve him? I am watching the Branagh adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing, slow to fulment myself into Shakespeare's vibrant sense with our youthful modern language, what is he assailing in this comedy? That love has no concrete identity? That virtue has no true reflection? I am stirring an ado, but the event of death has come, has passed, and shall it gladden anyone to know I had a civil discourse with my cousin, whose wife Adele I often imagined as a suitable confidante, even if the need for such a figure, or the desire to confide, is the weakness of my character that Anthony LaPaglia coolly dissects to Matt Craven. I am still not sure how I feel about Bulletproof Heart, not sure that Boyle's necessary quibble, a quibble needed to drive the story, hangs like a justified suit. It is without question that I would have thrived to be paid to mourn with ostentation, but whether I break down, hold it in, whether my vertigo is symptomatic of how hard I have swallowed losses, or the evil of institutional bigotry, losing this feline love is not a put on, I loved the animal, riding around with his remains in my canvas like Morrison's Pilate carried her ancestor's bones. I showed the memory print of Joey's paws to the Little One. "Here is your brother," I said, astonished at his caution. He did not swat, but hid under the bed until I shut off my tears, a consequence of such a marginalized frustration, that I do not know.