I got up early, considering that I didn't have to work.  I got moving by nine-ish, but was feeling sort of depressed.  Normal, I guess, for some one with no codeine cough syrup and the tail end of a cold.  But I was half way to the paint store before I realized the root of my blues.  I remembered that I hadn't taken any Effexor or Ritilin yesterday.  Maybe even the day before.

I considered sallying forth, thinking I'd medicate whenever I got back.  But I know where this goes, so I went home and took the meds.   How many days have I been sick?  Three.  How many times did I miss my meds?  No clue.  Enough to make me fragile, which is too many misses, even if it's one time.  Enough to remind me how much I rely on my meds.  Enough.

I ended up my errands at Duron Paints.  I hadn't been there in a couple of weeks.  The guy Brian that I usually deal with was there, but somber.  Dave, the guy with huge ear-plugs, wasn't there, because he'd finally got a job at a branch in the suburbs.  Less stress, more pay and a bucolic setting.  I'd said good-bye to him, ready to miss him, but be happy for him.  Brian told me, holding back tears, that Dave had died in a motorcycle accident.

The bike was shaking, he hit the rumble strips and then he hit the guard rail.  The first person to stop was a doctor, who said he didn't suffer.  As if a doctor would tell anyone who cared that he did.  My phone rang, about work, and Brian had two clients to deal with.  We'll talk later.

When I got home, I couldn't find Hello Newman.  Odd, as he was in an area that we've kept closed for Henrietta.  I ate lunch with Griffin and went to find Newman.  He was lying in a patch of sun, with Henrietta next to him.  Not normal.  I picked him up and carried him into the next room to give him some wet food.  He got up, but backed up to get it.  Not normal.  I left, came back and found him in the sun patch, not normal.

I brought him into my room, placed him on my pillows and wrapped him in a blanket that all my cats love.  He was un-responsive, to the point where I could play with his soft paw pads.  Not normal.  I began to think he was dying.  He may be fourteen, but he may be many years older.  I called Cricket, weeping.   She was on a paint-call for Philadelphia Theatre Company, but agreed that I shouldn't move him yet.  She'd be home ASAP.

See, the thing with an animal that you love, you need to know where to draw the line.  I didn't want to take him to the E.R. at Penn Veterinary, because they'd take him away and test the rest of his life out of him.  Don't get me wrong.  If he'd been hit by a car, I'd take him there.  But they are a teaching hospital, so end of life issues aren't high on their agenda.  Believe me, Cricket and I were there with Nimrod, her last dog.  He was, to spare you, dying, and they wanted her to sign him up for pointless treatments.

Right as Cricket came in the door with the "Liverworst" (sorry, no idea how to spell it, but it smells nasty)! Hello Newman got up and went to use the litter box.  Amazing, fantastic and.........By the time I got done telling her about her Healing Powers, Hello Newman was again prostrate on the bed.  She was able to feed him bits of Liverworst, but it took her handing him small bits of it.

Tomorrow morning, I'll be in line at Girard Veterinary Clinic with him.  On the off chance he has an illness, a parasite, an infection, or a bladder infection.  He doesn't seem to be in pain.  I want to make sure that he won't be.  Ever.

Susan made a comment about getting a psych service dog.   I'd never heard about such a thing.  It's a brilliant option.  One that might have helped me stay on track with my meds.  And I'm doing well, in general.  So, this program gives me hope.  There are millions of people who suffer silently, with Depression and other mental health issues.  To have an animal in one's life makes life worth living, but to have an animal that makes sure that you are living?  Now that is truly worthy.

If you are interested about PSD, please click HERE.