Hangover

Sleeping it all off.

Late morning Sunday, I dug in the garden, Dylan took a walk, and somehow the door didn't latch. Frantic searching, inside and out. Didn't take Moby long to approach me. I picked him up easily and dropped him inside. Got the treats, and walked the neighborhood rattling it and looking. Mike&Spike on the lookout, taking extra walks looking for Eleanor.

Interspecies relationships are difficult to explain. Parents, or would be parents, consider them their children. We consider them friends, but also intimates and our responsibility. We owe them a good home, food, safety, affection, attention. Meeting their needs as cats. Adult cats. We both felt we'd failed her, yesterday. Resisting the urge to blame. Stomping on my own anger reflex, mostly successfully. But then the sadness would overwhelm, and tears would drain.

Moby seemed to want to stay out a long time. As we looked, he seemed to want to as well. Vague collegial concern, since this was clearly unusual. When I wrote the first post last night, he came to sit on me and purr, which he has not done for a long time. He's sitting on the table at my elbow now, another non-recent behaviour. He's always been a good friend.

We went to bed last night with heavy hearts, tears. I thought about families that have lost children, and I had a taste of how desperately hard that must be. Even though I figured Eleanor would be fine, she's lived outside, knows how to fight and hunt, and she's friendly enough to find another house. But to lose her, not to know, a chasm opened in our lives.

I didn't really sleep. Listening to the storm, lots of heavy rain, thunder and lightning, for the first time unable to enjoy it, worrying only that Eleanor had found a dry place to hide.

Then the motion light on the back porch came on. Strange, since neighborhood cats wouldn't be running past it when it was raining so hard. It switched off. Then back on. I got up, opened the door, and a cat bolted toward the front. I tried not to hope this was Eleanor, but it would fit. She knows the front door is an entrance, but may not have figured out that the back door is. I ran to the front.

Not entirely sure it's her, I invite her in. She doesn't hesitate. I run my hand over her back and tail as she hurries in, and I know it's her, know the feel of her. She paws the rug, and I burst into tears, welcoming her home. She lets me pick her up, and I hold her tightly, Dylan joins me. Then we get her food, and go to bed. She knows how to get Home. She considers us Home. Well. Alright then.

She walked over me, then spent the night in the front and back windows, looking on on the storm. She likes watching storms, my little kindred.

Moby seems to be missing his morning irritations and chases.

It's all right now.