“Forlorn“? Oh, I suppose it can get even a wild thing weighing whether to keep on struggling, or just let go. However, it’s not a word known to bobcats. Or if it ever is, it is quickly forgotten.
Note: Old bobcats are always wild, though they may appear a house cat for long stretches. Don’t ever be fooled. They aren’t. They are called many things in many lands, and answer to none, least of all the whispered, “Appendage.”
In related news: I finally sought medical intervention, spurred by the intercessory assistance of my maternal and paternal grandmotherbobs with the Lord of all wild things.
I’m feeling most dangerously better, thank God, thank grandmothers, and thank antibiotics and steroids and those who administer them.
I’m on the hunt for haddock, today. It will have been wild-caught by others, for now, but the memory of 3 nights of another dining on the one thing I might’ve eaten that might’ve given me strength — had the greater concern not been that of pleasing self and others — while I sat starving down to 95 lbs. with scraps… the tail-end of fillets… and a tiny portion of scraps that night overall — none of which I had even the energy to address?
That memory is hard, but it’s the only one of many I’ll hold onto — until I heal it with 3 nights of thick haddock fillets where he-who-says-he-loves can see every me-strengthening bite. Grandmotherbobs, especially the Irish and the Mi’gmaq, re-teach you how to maintain your own, once it’s been given back to you.
I’m also going to need to get to confession, yes. I’m always a Catholic wild thing. It stinks, but I love the Lord of wild things — He Himself is untamable — and so it shall be. I’d rather be His kind of wild. Always. Down to the bone.
2018 is shaping up to be unique.