8 weeks tomorrow. That's how old Cala will be when her life is snuffed out forever.... I just can't take it anymore. Another yellow leaf, the constant checking for dampness, the pruning, the watering. Surely 8 weeks is a long and happy life? Euthanasia. The word rattles around in my head like a wayward marble. Another marble with horns makes an appearance and hisses, Murder. You say potato, I say potato! I'll bet Cala is begging to go to a better place. I know I'm ready to say goodbye....
I'm looking at her as I type this, and she looks back at me thirstily, bright, green leaves outnumber fading, yellow ones 7:1. Dammit! I pour. One for her, one for me. Guess we'll just have to go the shaken not stirred route....
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