I can’t believe I behaved this way, but then again, I’m in the back half of my life so I claim certain rights. Three days ago, my kitty did not come home, and I freaked. Let’s be clear: he’s not my kitty, he’s a prodigal–a traveller some call “visitor”. In short, he belongs to the nice people six doors down who undoubtedly suffer as much as I do when the beastie goes on a walkabout. What can we do? He’s a puddy cat and he has to do what puddies do…I guess. I’m sure my intense grief (or kitty withdrawal) has something to do with my kiddoes growing up (and what a fine job they’re making of that, I’m lucky) or my slow and, at times, resistant journey into monsterpause aka “the dark side”. Whatever the underpinnings, my anxiety was equal parts evocative and supercilious. Point is, the cat came back, and man am I ever glad. For all things lost and regained, I guess the thing to do is rejoice. Long live the cat, and may the gods bless the little buggar too.
Good Saturday, and stay above it.