Friday, Then

The cat’s vet appointment is Friday morning. I don’t have anything profound to say about it. Last night, he went outside and he didn’t come back in and I went looking for him. He was just in the garage, curled up by the back door. But I thought of all the times when Sadie would be standing in the yard, unable to come up with what she should do next, and the cat would walk out there to get her and guide her back to the house. Or all the times, after Sadie died, when he would go for walks with me and then wait for me in the far field to make sure I got home okay. And there I was, going to look for him, making sure he got back to the house okay.

I’ve lived with him his whole life, except the first four weeks of it. If I bought a cat today that lived as long as he’s lived, I’d be 61 when he died.

I hope he haunts me. Because I’m going to miss him. According to my math, I’ve spent 40% of my life with him. The Butcher has spent half his life with him.