I thought maybe yesterday would be an easier day, emotionally, but it wasn't. It was the first day I'd been alone in the house since Ruckus's death, and his absence was everywhere. He was such a social being, always making sure he knew where I was, always close by, whether inside or outside. Without his company, the house and garden feel dead.

I know I'll get over this sensation eventually. So I'm still plodding away at my chores and pretending that I care about them, because one of these days I really will care again. And I know I ought to get another cat sooner rather than later. It's better for me to have a little someone to tend and fuss over.

But this week is not the week. I will continue my sad round for a few more days, and then we'll fly to Chicago into the embrace of our kids and their three rowdy cats, and when I'm home again I'll figure out what to do next.

This morning I'll get into the garden . . . tear out peavines and sow kale seed and salad greens, prune and stake tomato plants, do some weeding and mowing and trimming, and otherwise ready the beds for a few days on their own.

One bit of good news is that my younger son's health issues seem to be abating. In the summers he leads wilderness canoe trips in northern Ontario, but this season has been tough. He started off with a bad ear infection, then had to be evacuated from his trip after he was stricken with full-body hives. The med staff can't figure out what triggered anaphylaxis; best guess is a bite or a sting exacerbated by stress over Ruckus's death. In any case, it was a scary situation, handled deftly. By the time I learned about it (yes, during the conference and, jeez, how much can one person compartmentalize while trying to do a hard job?), he was on a cocktail of meds and responding well, and yesterday he cheerfully told me that they were bringing him back to his campers and he would continue the trip.

No option but to trust. The staff are well trained in wilderness medical emergencies. All I can do is wish him bon voyage.