Paco is dead.
He died last night while we were at dinner. I guess he broke out of the fence (we have a short fence that separates our yard from the front house) and then, while trying to get back into the house, tried to jump over the fence, didn't make it, got his head caught in between the fence pickets, and strangled. By the time we got home he was dead.
I cannot explain how much this event rocks my core.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to get old and grey and crotchety. He was supposed to raise Xochitl. He was supposed to make me a millionaire so I could get taxidermy done to his head when he did finally kick the bucket.
There are so many "what-ifs" in this situation but what I can't shake is the image of him hanging in the fence. His feet couldn't touch the ground and his toenails were bleeding from the attempt to get his head unstuck. The last thing he wanted to was get back home and he never made it. He died alone.
The simple act of putting the key in the gate brings back the image. Without the aid of sleeping pills it would have kept me up all night last night, but, as it was, it only kept me up about half the night.
Today we drive up to Napa and get him cremated. And I think I'll commission Tim to make a piece to hold the ashes.
I still can't believe it. I feel like there's a big hole in my life. The night before he died we went out, took Paco, and left the baby at home. At one point, we were at a restaurant having a beer under the outside awning. I looked down at Paco and had a moment of realizing just how much he made me feel complete. We were so in tune with each other that we could move in sync. Together we made a whole and now it's broken.
If anyone wants to do anything for me/us/Paco then make a donation to BADRAP under his name.