Donald is Not Unwell

I have been silent because of various things, most importantly my cat, Donald, who has been deathly sick. When Donald is ill I am full of dread and worry, and often cannot sleep. He is not often ill; in fact last time was when I remember he swallow rat whole two year ago just before he go for his birthday photograph with Anna. But he has been very ill.
It has always been the case, this curious parallel between my worry and my pet illness, and I know it is not absolutely rational. My father, Stanislaw, famous military general, suffer similar thing only with his soldier. When they were ill, then so would he worry – and not simply that he might lose battle. No, he would worry about other thing, such as end of world, or creeping menace, or crow. My father was very brave man but to see him run from crow was strange thing. When his army advance, and if he was aware of sickness in camp, he have three men station on each side of him, and three in front, who shoot down crow from tree if they see it, before he notice. At home I have seen him run in door when crow fly over and scream GET AWAY, GET AWAY (only in Polish). And this was also an affliction for my good friend Geoffrey Bernard, sadly who is now sadly no longer alive, and was fable for ‘GEOFFREY BERNARD IS UNWELL’. It was never the case that Geoffrey was unwell. Sometimes he was of course drunk as Russian, but most often he was unable to do things because of illness to his little rabbit, Bruno. Bruno was sometimes succumb to melancholy and look to be weeping in his castle (Geoffrey did make fairy tale castle for Bruno in back room of Soho flat).
Now, however, Donald is well and I write. And as I ponder his illness I wonder if it may be perhaps that illness is in me not in him. Only as cat he reply to me, like strange echo of my sadness. I am often happy man but in my soul there is, from time to time, great darkness.