My New Year’s Eve? At home.
That’s how I started 2026 — in the sweetest company of my little mussel.
I scratched her gently, we shared a sublime dinner of sea bream, I held her paw during the fireworks, and I blasted music at full volume (yes, I argued with the neighbor — if I ever meet her again, it’s on sight).
All just to protect her from the noise.
Me, her, grapes and fermented grapes.
Then we waited for Stranger Things to drop, and I realized that all this slow living is slowly turning me into… Karen fucking Wheeler.
Oh well — as long as there’s no Ted involved, I’m fine.
Jokes aside: I was lucky.
Despite her venerable age, she’s okay. And not everyone can say the same.
I read about animals so terrified they didn’t survive the fireworks. Not to mention the pollution.
I live in a small town, and the morning after was already a mess — I can’t imagine the cities.
A friend lost her cat because of the fireworks.
Another friend’s dog had to wear a diaper because he’s too scared to go outside.
I was lucky.
But even my girl carries the signs:
she follows me everywhere, cries in her sleep, looks for me, screams if I close the bathroom door, needs the closet door always open, won’t sleep unless I’m sitting right next to her.
I would have chosen a quiet New Year anyway.
But I thank the gods that I did.
I love you, my little one.
You’re a mess, a clingy mussel, a dramatic princess.
But you’re my mess. My mussel. My princess.
