This is an awful story, so please treat it as such in the replies. Everything I will ever type here is completely true.
I am 49, 50 in December. As I type this the tabletop is wet from my arms. The top of my computer is wet from my wrist. I have been outside in Linwood, Michigan digging a grave in sand, it's not even clay, for a cat, and I am almost dying. I just took a break. My third. I am currently three inches below the top of the ground and I have filled up a huge tote with all of this sand and ground and I look and the tote is full and I look in the hole, grave, whatever, and it's like not even gone yet it seems. My face is wet. My arms are wet. I feel like I should just keep digging and collapse into the hole but that would be so much more work.
It's a cat. How do people do this type of stuff for a living? I don't get it.
I am 49, 50 in December. As I type this the tabletop is wet from my arms. The top of my computer is wet from my wrist. I have been outside in Linwood, Michigan digging a grave in sand, it's not even clay, for a cat, and I am almost dying. I just took a break. My third. I am currently three inches below the top of the ground and I have filled up a huge tote with all of this sand and ground and I look and the tote is full and I look in the hole, grave, whatever, and it's like not even gone yet it seems. My face is wet. My arms are wet. I feel like I should just keep digging and collapse into the hole but that would be so much more work.
It's a cat. How do people do this type of stuff for a living? I don't get it.