Here, Kitty Kitty
Greetings, writers—
I didn’t write a post yesterday because I was certain that one of our cats had been eaten by a coyote, and this conviction left no room in my mind for meaningful work or, indeed, any thought unrelated to my poor missing animal.
The cat, whose name is Diamondfall, Dimey, or Jeanette, depending on who you ask, slipped outside unnoticed on Tuesday night and then failed to appear for breakfast. I know, cats are capricious, unpredictable, whatever, but this cat has not missed a single meal in ten years, and at one time was so fat that she could not clean the parts of herself that cats are expected to clean. (This was a dark period in our domestic life.)
She’d been mistakenly locked out before, but she was always waiting right outside the front door before the sun even rose. So when Dimey wasn’t home at 6 a.m, or 7, or 8 or 9 or 10, we were starting to panic. “I just feel like if she could come home, she would,” I kept saying.
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