Return of the prodigal kitty

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┬ámonsterpause 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.