Nine

Nine years ago today, D brought Moby home, in a cardboard carrier, and a bag of food from the Boston Animal Rescue League, on the train. Moby mewed the whole way, but we didn't hear him vocalize again for many months, and rarely after that for many years.

He hid under the sofa, the sink cabinet, the bed, for a solid week, only coming out after we'd gone to bed, playing with a little ball, his jingling tags the only evidence of a new roommate.



The rug, and the cat, really pulled the room together.



Later, he became D's advisor and editor.