'Incoming!'

And,because this is the Middle East (and Israel particularly), a 'situation' has escalated quickly.

I didn't sleep last night for several reasons. But, before we get into that, a little visual for you:

I fully admit, I did have a bit of a wobble yesterday. I am still incredibly psyched to go - but the prospect of entering a country abuzz with rocket fire is giving me some pause for thought. 

Last night was horrible, for several reasons: 

1. Sustained rocket fire and sirens - a lot of my friends spent the evening running back and forth to bomb shelters, 
2. I have almost fully packed up my flat, but there are so many boxes! How am I going to get them to the place I'm storing them, and stack them?!
3. Ditto my suitcases. I have spent the past 3 evenings trying to wedge in all the stuff I'll need, chucking and donating as much as possible. The weight limit is 3 bags of 20kg. I'm up to two at 25kg and one at approx 27. 
4. It's my second last night with Corny. I know I should just 'suck it up', but in light of the topics I'll be discussing below, I am feeling worse than ever about the prospect of leaving him. 
5. My head and my heart are in two minds. My mum and even some of my friends are telling me to not go on Sunday, but to stay in England and wait it out a bit, as the situation has become much more intense in the past 2 days. 
6. The tenant to be moving in on Saturday - 'The Iranian' I referred to a few posts back - has been messing around my estate agents and not providing the requested documents. They have told him that unless he does so, and soon (ffs - I'm leaving the country in less than 4 days!), they're putting my flat back on the market. As such, I have two more viewings tomorrow, just as there are boxes and suitcases everywhere, no discernible signs of homeliness and the flat's a mess. 

All of the above resulted in a sleepless night. 

I am really confused, and very upset, at the idea that I'll be under constant rocket fire for possibly the first few months of my life in Israel. My mum has been calling me all day, telling me really awful things like, 'you know if you take a direct hit on a building, you'll die', and 'I don't know why you're so intent on going to live in a war zone', alongside other unsettling things which will not paint her in a good ligh, and I therefore don;t wish to repeat here. I know she is only trying to prevent me from going because she is scared, but when I feel awful enough (for other various reasons I won't be documenting here), this is the least helpful approach in which to communicate her feelings. She's even asked me to postpone my flight until the situation dies down - but this is an impossibility, as Ulpan begins on Monday. 

Additionally, I've quit my job (my last day is tomorrow!) and I'm about to give away my beloved cat. Why on earth would I so readily do these things if I were to sit around, waiting for the situation to improve, for an incalculable amount of time? 

What's also confusing is the blasé attitude of some Israelis towards the bombardment. I'm so confused - humour is the best way to deal with traumatic situations, but on the one hand, I have my mother prophesying doomsday, and on the other, this: 

You know how mad I am because of these rockets? That was a my last inside-out salmon avocado sushi bite, and i dropped it on the carpet because of the alarm! It was a perfectly spiced and sauced bite! dammit! ruining our lives...

and this (which is informative at least): 

and this, which is actually very funny, and must have elements of truth:

'Shit Tel Avivians say during a rocket attack' 

I'm pretty sure I'm not making a  mistake. I've wanted this for so long, but alright, I admit it - I'm terrified. I've not grown up with rocket fire, I'm exhausted from the end of the school year and I'm very, very emotional.

I'm not scared only of the rockets, but of making the wrong choice. This is a big enough life change to warrant some feelings of cold feet; when accented by the danger and uncertainty of rocket salvos, it's downright panic-inducing.

I can already feel that I'm in for another sleepless night.

Six days to go...

By this time next week, I'll be in my new home - Jerusalem, Israel.

While I'm still excited to be going, several factors have been giving me pause for thought. Not least the escalating situation, which is taking place, centre stage, in - you guessed it - good old west Jerusalem, and other locations around the country.

Far be it from me to provide my own political comment on whatever is happening. I always wonder what possesses those people who post long diatribes. Maybe they have wee epitomes, a symptom of our times, unfortunately, that PEOPLE MUST KNOW WHAT I'M THINKING ABOUT, WHEN I'M THINKING ABOUT IT. AND FAST!

I tend to go with the other, preferable realisation - who cares what I think anyway?! - yet still blabber on all of my (non-political) thoughts via this blog. I confess it's mainly to keep people updated on my aliya progress, so I don't have to answer the same questions 20-odd times. I like to think I'm being helpful with this approach - it also means people get to skip the bits they CBA to read/hear. Don't say I'm not good to you, people.

All of that aside, voicing political opinions on social media/in conversation with those who've already made their minds up serves very little purpose, nor will it change anything. However the shoddy political situation is a massive consideration to take into account, when making or preparing for aliya. It always has been.

I'm torn between what I know and what I'm seeing. My facebook feed swings wildly between semi-alarmist articles, blogs ranging from the loudmouthed and unconsidered to the perceptive and analytical, posts in groups alerting to potential chefetz chashudim - suspicious objects - around Israel and pictures of my Israel-dwelling friends on the beach. What on earth am I meant to think?

The only comparative experience I can draw on was during my last extended sojourn, coinciding with 2010s Gaza Flotilla. Traumatic events aside, my personal experience was that I had serious FOMO, so rather than stay up all night and report on what was about to happen, I decided to go out drinking. I then woke up the next day with a biblically epic hangover and heard 8 people had been killed, and it was now an international incident. Seeing missed calls on my phone, telling me to haul arse to Ashdod (where the flotilla had been towed), I realised after trying a bit that that wasn't going to happen (it didn't) as roads were blocked. Disgruntled and head pounding, I returned to Tel Aviv (it transpired I'd left my wallet there anyway), where nothing at all was different, and everyone was getting on with their usual Friday morning activities.

The phone calls I received from friends and family back in Blighty were borderline hysterical though. The BBC were whipping things up again and people feared for my safety. While I was grateful for their well wishes and concern, I was also rather hungover and couldn't piece together their information with what I was actually seeing in front of me.

People do seem to be getting around and about in Israel, even if the situation is more tense than usual. It's easy for me to say, from my luxurious flat, Corny on my lap and only the sound of faraway traffic, for the next few days at least,  that maybe the situation isn't as dangerous as it seems.

Or, it could be. It could be worse. I fully admit it's scaring me and that if anything would lead to cold feet, it's this.

It's just such Sod's Law (non-Brits - yeah, I see you. Thanks for reading :) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sod%27s_law) that after 5 years of waiting and dreaming of this week - my last week in England! - that something as awful as this would happen. While I know that sounds awful - 4 teenagers have been murdered, and thank gd it's not my personal tragedy, the national and international aftermath is enough to unsettle the most po-faced amongst us.

Otherwise, I am looking forward to my last day as a teacher, on Thursday. Yet I am dreading Friday. I have been given the day off by my Head of Department, who has also experienced the joys of emigration, ahe thinks I will definitely need it. I'm so exhausted currently that my stubborn streak seems to have vanished and I agreed.

Thus, I'll be taking Corny to his new home on Friday, instead of Wednesday, before returning, for a few hours, to my flat, meeting the cleaners and then returning to my parents' home for my last Shabbat here.

I have said more (painful) goodbyes this weekend. I've packed a bit more stuff up. The flat's nearly empty

I'm so confused about how I feel. It's primarily excitement, blended with fear, with accents of...sorrow?

I'm consciously partly scared of making a massive mistake - leaving my comfortable (if mind-numbingly boring) life here, and giving away Corny, without being able to take him back if I ever returned, or gambling on the new beginning I've craved so badly.

Only time will tell. until then, I'll continue my bewildering cycle of elation, crying, news-checking and goodbyes.

Hello and Goodbye(s)

It's 2 weeks to the day that I'll be leaving.

This weekend, I have been mainly sleep deprived and/or crying my eyes out.

In other words, I am slightly bricking it.

It must be natural to feel a bit emotional. After all, there is a lot at stake. No matter how well I've prepared myself for this (and I really have - I've put a lot on hold this year, knowing I was here temporarily) I am a bit taken aback at how I feel.

Let's start at the beginning. I don't think I've mentioned this previously, but soon after Benjy's untimely death at the beginning of the month, my parents brought home Louis:

...otherwise known as 'Suarez', due to his particular penchance for biting pretty much everything and anything.

He's a lovely little doglet, despite being both ginger and very nippy. He's getting bigger (and more naughty) every week.

I'm sad that I won't be there to see him grow up. He's brought a lot of happiness to my parents, so at least I can take some solace from that, probably.

That's the 'hello' of the week; the rest are all 'goodbyes'.

They're the main reason for the aforementioned sleep deprivation and tears.

On a lighthearted note, I begin with the SNES.

For the uninitiated (!!!) this stands for 'Super Nintendo Entertainment System'. The console was manufactured in the late 80s and is probably as old as me. We've had it since we were kids, and many happy hours have been well spent in its company.

Pictured - the source of much happiness and joy for the past 2 decades

I rehomed it when I moved in to my flat, and have intermittently been working on what became a 20-year challenge - to complete 'The Legend of Zelda - A Link to the Past'.

I swore I'd do it by the time I left for Israel. Unfortunately, other stuff got in the way and it hasn't happened. I relinquished the SNES to my brother, more of whom later. It has now become a 30 year challenge. He better not wipe my game.

As for the other goodbyes, a few of my friends, for various legitimate reasons, won't be coming to visit me. This is the last time I'll be seeing them until I visit next year.

I guess emigrants have to be realistic. Who knows what will happen ? It's much more difficult to keep in touch across time zones. Or sometimes, when people meet and grow close, over whatever time period, it's because the conditions are conducive to it - be they proximity, interests, work etc. Kept constant, these help a relationship grow. Change one small factor, it's much more difficult. A lot of the goodbyes this weekend were no exception.

My brother and sister-in-law to be also came down from Edinburgh this weekend to sort wedding stuff, including bridesmaid dresses. If you're interested, bridesmaid dress shopping, whilst borderline-asleep, is an exciting and even hallucinogenic experience. We found a nice dress which will look good on us all. I just hope I won't ruin this effect by gaining the infamous 'aliya-15'.

The next time I'll see them in person will be at their wedding. Since we've grown up, my bro and I have inevitably become less close. This is natural. Since he moved to the 'Burgh, I see him intermittently anyway. We both have our own lives, as happens when siblings grow up.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, or the daunting packing, or the whole weekend generally, but I've been in a bit of a state since I said goodbye earlier.

This is not helped by the packing process, which is such a traumatic experience - frustrating, space-invading and mostly futile - that I can really only bring myself to explain it through the medium of pictures.

Olim are permitted to bring 60kg of luggage spread across 3 bags, which sounds like a lot. Had I fulfilled my aliya plans back in 2010, or even 2012, I could've been fine with this. As it stands now, even after all of the chucking and donating, it's remarkably unrealistic.

At 5pm, I began, all purposeful-like. I set out my cases neatly, together with the packing I had already done:

Even Corny was having fun, and decided to join me in the endeavour: 

'So we're going on an adventure?'

 By 6.30 pm, after weighing each bag, only to find them significantly over the 20kg limit, I unpacked and started again:

Despite this being one of the cutest things I've seen, it helped very little practically and emotionally.

This too. 

Ok this at least helped to flatten the clothes. And fill them with cat hair. 

Corny soon got bored, and by 8.30pm, I had to start all over again. The 'packing' looked like this:

I despair. It's enough to make me regret the aliya decision in the first place.

Maybe I'll just stay.

The cat, the flat and the happy ray of sunshine

How quickly things can change!

Last week, I was practically cursing the heavens as everything was so awful and stressful. This week, however, I have only good things to report. I will itemise them, as I am feeling refreshed (despite the hayfever) and purposeful.

1. The Cat

Corny, as you may recall from the vitriol that was my last post, was due to be taken by a family when I left. They strung me along, inconvenienced me several times and later horrifically dumped us. At 10pm. Via text. Twats.

Heartbroken, I allowed myself to cry for a full ten minutes before stopping and being practical. I gathered a list of shelters and numbers, emailed the ones I could, posted to facebook and then wrote up a post expressing my disgust. The latter, while not really very useful, served two purposes - catharsis, and allowing people to read rather than ask. I didn't want to talk about it.

My friends were fantastic - messages of support and to see if I was ok, reposting my status - I'm so grateful.

Amazingly, some of the shelters got back to me that night - by that time, about 11-11.30pm - and asked for details and whether or not they'd have room for him. Obviously, leaving Corny in a shelter (he is a bit spoilt. I couldn't help it. He's just so cute and baby tiger-esque) was my last resort, but there I was. Or way past it.

I then remembered something that that horrible 'Cat Chat' lady told me - about a process of direct rehoming, where you essentially send details of your cat to the shelters nearest you who offer it and then they put you in touch with people looking to adopt.

The next day, at about 11pm, I got an email from Cats Protection Hendon, saying someone in West London had contacted them stating interest in rehoming an indoor cat about 5 years old. Could it be?

I emailed back expressing my thanks, and called the next day. The lady who answered is older, has had cats for years and is ready for a new one. It seemed her catchphrase is 'Awwww lovely!', as whatever I told her about my Corny was deemed exactly this. I quizzed her for about 20 minutes, trying to work out if she was right for Corny (What? At least I know I'm overprotective!). She has a vet on her road, and all the stuff a cat would ever want or need. I sent a quick description of Corny, his likes etc and some photos over to her carer and said I'd call back the next day once she'd seen them.

Although she said she'd take him while we were on the phone, I've been messed around once and hell, did I learn. Always secure a definite 'yes' at the beginning. No stringers here!

So the next day I called. She was very happy to hear from me, telling me she'd printed one of the pictures (I think it's the one where he's hiding in a box) and stuck it in her kitchen! She told me that she'll give him 'all the love and attention he deserves' so I think he's going to get on well there. I have a good feeling about this.

I explained that I want to spend as long with him as possible, which she said she understood completely, and we organised for me to drop him off at her on the Wednesday, 4 days before I leave.

I'm going to be an absolute state, but I am so deliriously happy that Corny has found a new home, and with someone that I feel pretty good about too.

2. The Flat

Tuesday was a highly eventful day it seemed. I rushed home from school to meet someone from a local estate agents, of whom my auntie had been singing high praises.

The estate agent chatted to me about various important things, took the pictures and put it on the website the next morning. That evening, I had 3 flat viewings. The next day, I had 3 flat viewings. The day after, I had 2.

In 3 days, I had 4 offers.

So now, I've found a tenant for my flat!

He seems a bit of a meshugana, but in a good way. he's an older gentleman, Iranian, a lecturer.

I think he'll take good care of the flat. While I was showing his female significant other (wife? girlfriend? I didn't want to ask) around the flat, he'd wandered over to the bookshelf, where I'd left out some stuff to take with me to Israel.

He was looking at the family picture from my brother's engagement party, then turned to me and said:

'Ah! I didn't know you were Iranian! Is this your father?' He points at my stepdad, 'Such an Iranian face!'

He went on: 'Is this your grandfather? Such an Iranian! Is that your sister? Ok she looks a bit more Arab, but ok, Iranian! Is that your mother?'
I nod. It is my mother, after all,
'Where's she from?'
I tell him she has Spanish-Portugese blood, which is true,
'Ah!' This pleased him. The he turned to me, in the picture and in real life.
'Then why are you so white?'

It's a question I ask myself every so often. Blue eyes, pale skin, about a foot taller than the women in the family, I must be some kind of genetic throwback from when my family were schlepping across Europe.

Now, I know how to deal with Middle Eastern men. Hell, I got mad skills when it comes to that. But in order to get what you want, you have to play along.

The next step was, of course, the coffee chat. So outside to the balcony we all went, drinking coffee and talking about the old country. I reverted back to the good old 'yes...but...' tactic I referred to a few posts back. I'm delighted to report that it worked a treat.

So, the next day, the Iranian put the deposit down. I called the estate agent and told him that if the tenant ever referred to me as 'that Iranian girl', he had to smile and play along.

'Don't worry,' he told me, 'I know the story. Sometimes I'm also Irish.'

The whole experience of the last week has knackered me out. But now these two things are sorted, topgether with some exciting developments otherwise, I am one happy ray of hayfevery sunshine.

To top it off, my school friend Amy, who made aliya a few years ago, is back in Blighty for a bit. So we met up and discussed everything - our lives, her aliya and plans, my aliya and plans - in a 7 hour convo.

It was wonderful to see her and reconnect, and also really informative.

It really was the best, most perfect end to an upturned week.

Now I just have to pack up the flat... and my 60 kg allowance. Eek!

The Ballad of Corny Wallace

Let's begin this post with some small moment of positivity, because it's about to heavily rain shit straight after.

A good thing is that I have packed up half of my flat. I am operating what I'm calling a 'skeleton kitchen', which is actually not a kitchen catering to skeletons or the like, but a very pared down version of my glorious previous kitchen stock. All food must be eaten, all utensils packed away.

'I'm helping pack!'

And so now, with three and a half weeks to go until my aliya date, the heavens have opened and the bump I encountered last week has become a massive extended shit storm.

It's a whole new level; I can take tenants leading me on and letting me down. My beloved dog, who I personally hand-reared, suddenly and shockingly dying? It still hurts awfully, but at least I'm wading through it.

No, the straw which has finally broken this highly resilient camel's back is a broken promise of far more epic proportions.

When making aliya, I think it's necessary, as in life, to prepare for the worst at all junctures. To this end, I could potentially deal with it if my flat wasn't rented out.

As I've mentioned earlier, my cat, Corny Wallace, was due to be rehomed by a local family. They made a massive fuss about coming to visit him every week, schlepping along their child to meet him too. On her last visit, she declared him her 'best friend'. Corny, for his part, also seemed to be ok with her.

'I'm one sexy kitty'

So I was especially disgusted when I received a text - yes, A TEXT - from the father, saying they decided they wouldn't take Corny after all.

I'm leaving in 3 and a half weeks. Regardless of the emotional aspect (more of which in a minute), logistically this is a nightmare. I should have put Corny on the waiting list for the shelters in the area, but 2 months ago when I called up I was either told they were full or I was put off by a very blunt woman from Cat Chat ( a cat advice and rehoming charity), that most of these shelters kill the older cats. I quote her, 'He's old. He'll be for it. They'll find something wrong with him and he won't last very long.'

Did I mention I had already begun sniffling, my voice breaking when I started the phone call? This exclamation didn't really help. She then began quoting statistics and places I could google to back up her claims.

I know some people don't understand the attachment that we form to our pets. But here's the thing: as my dogs' vet told me when I asked him for advice, 'two pets gone in two months? You're brave.'

What I'm feeling isn't stress. I've moved house before, I've emigrated (at least for a year or two) before; if I have to get rid of more of my stuff to accommodate the packing allowance, so be it.

No, I am absolutely distraught, for several reasons.

Corny has had a strange and interesting life so far. He was raised in a family of 5 other cats by an ex-colleague of mine who, after 5ish years, suddenly decided that she had 'too many cats', and that Corny specifically had to go.

Cue me. I'd just moved to a new flat. I was having a horrible time at work. I was missing the dogs terribly and, going from a big, noisy family house to a silent one bed flat was pretty...terrifying.

So, with no prior knowledge of how to deal with cats, in came Corny.

'I arrived here in a bag. A Primark bag!'

We got on absolutely swimmingly. He is (and always will be) very loving, snuggly and purry, often all at the same time. The little guy's on my lap now, as I type, purring away. He was there for me, snuggling and mewing, during the bad times, or when I got home from work, and more of the same when I woke up. He sits on my lap for most meals (bad habit but, dammit, he's just so cute).

'Is this a bug I see before me?'

The real turning point in our relationship was when, during Succot, Corny became ill and spent the festival in hospital with a critical UTI. Something must have spooked him (gd knows what), and I'd walk up to meet him during my time off school for the festival and feed him.

At the time, in September, I thought I'd be making aliya in December. Seeing Corny all hooked up to machines, with a catheter in and a cone around his neck, I was distraught.

You see, I hadn't realised before, but Corny, despite being a generally amazing companion, has taught me so much about myself. I didn't know I was capable of taking care of and being wholly responsible for another living thing. I didn't know I could love anything that much, or feel anywhere near as awful as I did when he got ill. In other words, Corny helped me to become an adult.

I also feel guilty. At the time I took him in I was honestly trying to forget about making aliya, as it was plainly inconvenient, a childish folly. I tried to make a go of it here. I bought a flat. I took in Corny. I was receiving tempting job offers. I really thought I'd be giving him a home for life.

But...well, you know the story. Israel beckons. I've tried to bring him with but, as the ulpan won't allow pets, and the vet advises against it, I have no option.

But however bad a person I might be (as one troll on an internet advice forum decided to label me, multiple times and in various increasingly disgusting posts), I don't think Corny deserves this. Yes, he has a ridiculous name, but it's a part of his fluffy charm.

Maybe this is another test. Every week, when I light the candles to welcome in Shabbat I add my own prayer - for Israel, for family and friends etc...I've asked G-d so many times over the past 4 years to lead me and guide me. Finally, for once, I feel like I'm doing the right thing. But it's heartbreaking when these things happen. Seemingly all in one go. I hope it's the final test.

But still. A text message?

Did we just get dumped by text?

'This is my seat now. I'm feigning sleep so you get the picture.'

The Bump and the bookshelf

Well it's been a long week, for several reasons.

Despite the whole emigration thing, and all of the crazy stuff which that entails, I've had a lot to get done, at work and at home, and was fretting over packing up and also leaving Corny the cat behind. When I originally planned my aliya date, to coincide with the beginning of Ulpan (language immersion) and the end of the school year, it seemed like a great idea to finish work on the Friday and fly on the Sunday. I had a Barney Stinson-esque moment of ambition in 'Challenge accepted!' mode. Now, however, in a semi-comatose state, I'm wondering what the hell I was thinking.

To help matters further, after Benjy's sudden death last Sunday I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping. Don't get me wrong, I was absolutely exhausted - traumatic shocks/combined impending aliya do that to you! - but every time I closed my eyes, or let the distraction drop, I kept picturing him in various ways. As he was, snuggled up to me or running to greet me at the door at best. At worst, I could semi-clearly see the accident as it happened, at least from the information my parents would grant me.

But the most disturbing was a nightmare (even after I'd taken a sleeping pill to knock myself out and which did sweet FA) of his body going through the cremation process; his beautiful black curls burning up, alongside his eyes and ears...

But enough of depressing talk. This is a positive and exciting time for yours truly. If anything, the above has made me more resolute to go. It's the only thing driving me forward - the final realisation of a long-held dream.

In any life changing process or massive event, there is inevitably a bump somewhere along the way, where things appear to be going swimmingly and then BOOM! Something (or someone) swans along to screw it (and you) all up for no reason other than they get sick, sadistic pleasure from it. Or, you know, natural causes or bad planning.

For the past week, my flat has been on the market and I have been showing prospective tenants around. I became rather protective over my flat baby. Smiling through the tears (sometimes literally) while also sussing out the people potentially taking over your homestead is surprisingly draining. And repetitive.

Then came along the ones, at the point when I became disillusioned and wondering if I'd ever find them; the fabled people your mother hopes you'd meet, fall in love with, let your flat out to and live happily ever after with them covering the mortgage (before you decide to return home and live in the flat, of course, with nary a piece of damage and pristinely left boiler and plumbing systems).

They put a deposit down two days later and, for the first time since last Sunday, it felt like all was falling into place. I could relax a little bit and one thing had been scratched off my (slowly shrinking) list.

But then - disaster struck! Not 12 hours later, I received a call from my estate agents, informing me the couple were -

Moving to Holland.

Now, I understand the pull of living abroad (obviously!) others I wouldn't do it myself. And Holland is a wonderful country. But who gets a job offer at 8am? After they professed their undying love for my flat? After we shook hands on it and hugged?

We were all so happy, just a few short hours before. And now...they were soon to be gone.

I felt sick. I kept my phone around me in case they'd call, pleading for me to give the flat back to them, saying they'd acted in haste, and it was all a big mistake.

But, girls (and I guess some guys too?) reading this, you know how this ends.

There may be plenty more tenants in the sea, but dammit, they were pretty near perfect. We would have all had a happy life together.

But but but, as my mum advises, 'If that's the way they treat you before you're married - whoops, sorry, I mean, before they move in, what could they potentially be like after? Better to see the bad side beforehand.'

Wise woman, my mum. So, flattily single again, I wait.

As bumps go, it's fairly minor I suppose. On the plus side, here's a 'bookshelfie' before and after:

Before: A bookshelf. With books!

Yes, it doesn't look like much, especially considering I had to leave half of my books at my parents' when I moved out. But, half-packed and 3 massive boxes/rolly cases later:

Pictured: 3 massive boxes/rolly case and some books I accidentally nicked from my mum to return. Oops. 

TA DAAA! Clear...ish

...the job is done, minus some stuff I'm taking with me on aliyah.

So roll on, with 5ish weeks to go!

And, on the plus side, now that the anticipated bump is over, it should be plain sailing from here.

Please G-d. Fingers crossed!

And my flat was too good for those tenants anyway.

Cue Beyonce's 'Single ladies/'Survivor'. Yeah.

"If they liked it then we should've kept the deposit...'

In beloved memory of Benjy

Earlier today, whilst packing books and meeting prospective new parents for Corny the cat, I received a call from my mum. 

My parents had taken the dogs away for the weekend; Benjy had run free when they'd attempted to put his lead on, straight into the path of an oncoming car. 

My mum said it was instant and he wouldn't have known it was happening. He must have died on impact. 

It was obviously a shock to us all. I think more so because he was, as my brother and mum kept stressing, 'an accident waiting to happen'. I've lost count of the times that he's run straight out of the door, whenever it's been opened a mere smidgen, and the countless hours that my dad and I would drive around searching for him. In the end, he'd ultimately come trotting down the road, an hour or so later, as nonchalantly as if he'd been out for a casual stroll. 

That's why it's so awful to think he would go in this way. 

He'd always pulled through or escaped bad situations before. Only a few weeks ago, on another weekend excursion, he ran loose of his lead and decapitated a chicken on a nearby farm. It was the second time in as many years that he'd done this. 

Every time he had to go to the vet or was ill, it was always down to something he'd brought on himself. The last time I was living in Israel, my mum called to say that I shouldn't worry (I did), but that  Benjy had been admitted to a human hospital, suffering from 'dog flu'. Now, I'm no idiot, but I was willing to be gullible; a meta-search of terms related to 'dog flu' garnered no results. It transpired he had actually eaten a piece of rubber, and it was stuck somewhere in his digestive system. 

He managed to pull through then, and every other time. He was the best dog - loving, energetic, happy and highly intuitive. When I lived at home, he'd break into my bedroom every morning and night just to snuggle up to me in my single bed, which he inevitably found a way to claim wholly. I never minded. He would do the same whenever he'd sensed I'd had a bad day at school/uni/work; he'd sit with me when I was unwell; he'd be so incredibly, inexplicably happy to see me, even when I'd only left the house for a couple of minutes. 

Later, when I moved out and would return to my parents' home, he would be the first to greet me, as happy as if I was made of solid gold wrapped in chocolate. His eyes would bulge happily, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, and he'd struggle to jump all over me, nuzzling me and bashing me with his waggling bum simultaneously. 

He'd stay that way for the rest of my visit. In quieter times, he'd remember a trick I'd trained him to do from our summer of puppy training together. I'd make my legs into a circle - when he was younger, he'd sit in the middle and try to climb up me; now he was bigger, he'd plonk himself down, trying to fit as best as possible. 

And the licking! He was the lickiest dog you'd ever seen. Everyone would get at least one lick, surely the happiest, most loving kiss in the world (at least from a dog). I would be lucky enough to be licked repeatedly. I didn't mind; in fact I used to look forward to it. 

He was the most beautiful puppy we'd ever seen (Dylan, our other dog, looked like a messed up rabbit, and we thought we'd been shortchanged by the breeders). I'll never forget those human eyes peering at us shyly from my mum's hands as she brought him home that first time. He was black and grey beneath all the fur, which would grow into a 'Jewfro' (he was a Jewish dawg) and make him look fatter than he truly was. On top of his shining black head was the white 'wishy spot' - a white streak that only enhanced his beauty. 

I can only half believe he's gone. There's a physical pain which won't shift, even after the paracetamol and ibuprofen. there's nothing tangible I can do to help it. I feel like the child I helped to raise has been cut down, far away from me. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to protect him from it. 

Regarding my impending aliya - I knew these sorts of things would happen eventually. You can never be there, when you live plane rides away, for the (please gd) best times and the (gd forbid) absolute worst. I will hopefully (naively) never know if it's better to be here, closer, than further away and feeling some distance. 

My mum's told me there is nothing I can do, and that I'm literally weeks away from an exciting new time in my life. But with so much change ( I haven't even touched on the saga of packing the bookshelf up, or the meeting with Corny's prospective parents) in the air, I hadn't anticipated something as awful and out of the blue as this. As selfish as it sounds, I'd assumed all of this would happen in the future, at a time I wouldn't have to deal with it all at once. 

I love you, Benjy. As the song that made you wince said, 'I will always love you'. You were the best thing to ever happen to me; the most loving, giving and supportive pet/additional younger brother I could wish for. 

You will always be my baby. My black beauty. My Benjita. 

You said goodbye before I had the chance to. At least you'd spared me that pain. 

England holds one less tie for me. You'll always be with me, though

I'm so grateful to have had you and known you for as long as I did. Through the pain, in the utmost loving memory.

.