God, I feel awful. I am so sick of death. In the last 20 years, I have dealt with so much death, I am losing track. Relatives, friends, pets, and even my own mom. Since 1986, I have lost Daisy, my own mother, Joann, Mikey, my mother in law, Pookie, my maternal grandmother, Oreo, my sister in law, my brother in law, my paternal grandmother, plus a few people at work, in fandom, and the goth community who died tragically... then 9/11... gaaaah, I can't take all this death!
And now Artoo. I really thought he'd make it to at least 15, I really did. Out of all the cats I have had since I left childhood, he's lived the longest. Not long enough, but the longest.
What's going to really suck is all those people I have to act normal around at work because while all you guys are cool, every time I have to deal with this, there's always a few asshats that come out of the woodwork with, "It's just a cat," "You have others, though, right?" and "You can get a new one if you're that upset about it..." like I'd lost an ice cream cone on the sidewalk or something. While I feel I need to respect that not everyone likes or understands pets, I still feel the need to stick an icepick in their eye, and when they run around screaming, go, "Shut up, you have another eye, you big baby..."
I would like to thank all of you who came to my house and petted him. I am sure he'd thank you, too, if he wasn't sleeping in a stupor on the back of the bedroom recliner right now. Sorry if he shedded on your stuff, or slept on your jacket. He just really liked people.