And now for a somber post, if you don't already know about it from Facebook.

My favourite (fur)man in the world died suddenly on Monday. No warning, no signs, no nothing.

I woke up around 8am to my fiancee screaming from downstairs. He was about to leave for work when he found Toby convulsing on the floor, bile & drool and shit pouring out of him. We were out the door at, I kid you not, like 8:03. Calling my mom on the way to meet us there with a carrier to eventually bring him home (we didn't have one!), with Steve repeating over & over that he just ate something bad, he'll be fine, he'll be fine, through tears. But it wasn't fine. Every couple of minutes his body would start to heave and he'd open his mouth making these weird sounds. It was awful.

Mum met us there, gave me the carrier, told me not to leave she'd be back by 11am, she just had to open her store. Steve left to go to work 45 minutes away, but he ended up getting there and turning right around because he just couldn't handle it. So I'm sitting in the waiting room wearing shit I picked up from my floor (dirty yoga pants, & Steve's hoodie). No coat, no makeup/eyebrows, not even socks. But I did step in puke barefoot because the poor boy made a mess everywhere.

They told me his heart didn't sound good. They told me he had a heart attack. They told me they were running all the tests. They told me it would be thousands of dollars, I told them to fuck off and do everything humanly possible. They told everyone who came through the door for their scheduled vet appointment that they had to reschedule, they had to deal with Toby (only one lady complained, but when she saw my sobbing mess she realized she should shut the hell up). They told me they were going to get him ready for a transfer to an animal hospital with an on staff cardiologist. So I thought there was hope.

I had to be on set for 3pm (I'm keying a feature film) so I was on the phone with my assistant to see if she could fill in for me, when they called me downstairs. He was laid out on the operating table. A young girl doing her co-op at the vet was keeping a lil wee oxygen mask to his face. And the doctor was standing there with the fucking needle telling me there's no hope, his heart keeps stopping, he won't even survive the drive to the other hospital. Thankfully Steve had made it back in time. I was on the floor crying, literally, when they injected him. What a shit show.

When we got home, Steve went in and got rid of all the evidence. All the carpets the messes were on, I wanted them in the garbage. Everything had to go. We kept his Angry Bird toy (which I've been pathetically sleeping with), his catnip dynamite stick, his Dracula costume and yesterday the vet returned the blanket we took him in on (and he subsequently died on in the hospital).

Tonight I finally washed our bedspread. Only hours before he had the heart attack, he was sleeping with us, which he doesn't normally do. So he left this little furry dandruffy spot on the end of our bed that I just couldn't part with until now.

So. $2000 later, I have a box full of ashes. And that's my story. I'm fully aware my future is 'Crazy Cat Lady', believe me, I know. I just fucking loved that goddamn cat.