I Teared Up A Little - Tumblr Posts
So one of the things that can apparently contribute to kidney issues in cats is if they eat too much dry food and don't drink enough water; cats are adapted to get a lot of their water from their food since they're originally desert animals, and might not get enough water if they don't eat wet food. Unfortunately, Dozy won't eat wet food no matter what; she categorically refuses to touch the stuff. So a few months ago, we were looking for ways to get Dozy more fluids, and my wife noticed at the pet store a cat drink--basically meat broth with some floaty bits in--that was low-protein and meant for cats with kidney issues. So we figured, worth a try, right?
Great news: she loved it. Super tasty apparently. Great success. Along with the kidney-sensitive treats we found, it was a nice way to supplement her diet. Unforseen long-term consequence though: she loved it so much she began demanding it throughout the day. Like, would come up to us and meow, and meow, and meow, and not stop, until we got up, went to the kitchen, and got her some cat drink.
And by doing so on demand, we have unfortunately created a monster: no matter what we are doing at home, Dozy knows that if she sits next to you and meows, 1) you know what she wants, and 2) you know that she will not stop until you get it for her now. And when you do get it, she gets extremely excited. She will bum rush the kitchen door as you enter. She will run around your feet as you open the can. She will let out the creakiest, crunchiest, most nails-on-the-chalkboard meow you've ever heard if she thinks you're not going fast enough.
I do not begrudge her this. It is gratifying to care for a creature whose most ardent desires are so simple that it is this easy to fulfill them. But I am a little sad, because I know in my heart that I have never loved any comestible as much as she loves this cat drink. She has a pleasure of a purity and intensity that I will never know.
[the creacher in question]
Prologue: Happily Ever After
A take in Mickey's stream of consciousness in 7x11. This is a prologue to a series of chapters I'll (hopefully) be writing near the future about Mickey's life in México. This particular scene is important, and I don't think I need to explain why, as there are a lot of reasons story wise and production wise (what could've been the definitive end to Ian and Mickey). I hope I conveyed Mickey's thoughts/actions in the most In-Character way I could muster. This wouldn't be possible without the many insightful posts I read in Tumblr and the many conversations (rants!!!) I've had with two lovely people I met there. They've shaped my thought process. I hope you enjoy!
-> read full thing in AO3
-> sneak peek:
Sit.
Finish the disguise. Fix the hair. Lover sees you. Tackle automatic gear shift. Hands on the wheel. Pass by your Lover. Your eyes crystalline. Avoid your now Half's muddied green stare. It's too painful to bear. It almost looks like the dull grass around you. On the other side, too. There's too much grass. Your stubble doesn't matter. Sport it with your broken heart.
Drive.
You're leaving all behind you. All. A Half and a lifetime of stars, of dreams, of sun. The bare confession from last night is now stored in the glove compartment. Drive. Don't look back. You aren't the one now. Not anymore. You can't let Him look. Dissociate. Drive. Automatic gear shift. Automated motion.
Dissonance.
Automatic drive. Automatic. Gas pedal, automatic drive. Automated thought. Drive up the road. Get to the gate. Automated. Brain muscle memory. Focus on the straight lines. Drive straight. Look straight. Straight ahead. Automatic shift. Your brain becomes the pedal.
Look through mirrors. The rearview mirror. Figure out blind spots.
Don't look back. Only ahead. You'll crash if you don't.
Up ahead is the law. Play it cool. Build the facade.
Cops draw closer. But you don't fear them. What are you to them? A crossdresser trying to cross. A convict across the border? No, that's what you hope they don't see. Sugar them. Use your piercing blues. Or don't. Don't acknowledge them. Hope they'll let you slip to the other side. Away. Away from Pain. Away from home. Home. You're leaving your Home. But that shouldn't scare you more than the cops. Focus on the day.
Today is dry, but you need wiper blades for your eyes.
Hey, look ahead. Wipe, or you'll crash. Tears are your blind spot.
They can't see you. They can't see Mikhailo Milkovich, only Mickey.
What does your fake ID say? Do you see? A double-edged sword, your name. But what can they see? What facade can they see? The hair or your five-o'clock shadow? The bracelet or your sturdy hands? The dress or your hidden chest? When does the crimson in the clothes blend with your seething blood? You focus on the sharp grip of the wheel. Bold ink against the pallor. Drive. Automated thought.