Romeo

I can't find Romeo anywhere. The neighbors haven't seen him. He's not at the pound. So there's that fearful circuit of the block (he wouldn't have gone far) and the creek alongside, calling his name, looking for a glimpse of black and white in the underbrush. But there's no sign of him anywhere.

He was here night before last. He wouldn't have gone far, because he had very recently lost his sight; and as cats will do, he picked the end of the month to fall ill - that last agonizing week when state employees urge their children to take up nailbiting just for the nutritional value - but yesterday morning he didn't come into the kitchen asking to be fed.

We went to the animal shelter this afternoon, Anna and I. It's heartwrenching to see the little lost kitties in their cages, mewing at you in fear and hope; but these really are the lucky ones. One of them, a sweet-faced, beige tabby behemoth, must have weighed at least 35 or 40 pounds, no exaggeration. The tag on his cage said he was a stray, but I suspect he probably just ate his owner.

But no Romeo. I think even the tamest cats return to their primal, antisocial natures when they are sick. The humans who love them take comfort in seeing that their pets don't die alone, but I don't think cats really have that compunction; it's for our benefit and not theirs, really, to hold the poor little suffering furry body in our arms and murmur words of comfort through our tears. The cat would probably rather just be left alone, and given the chance, will slink away to a cranny somewhere to die in peace.

Or some neighbor we didn't talk to picked him up, maybe took him to the vet, maybe is taking care of him, maybe had him put to sleep. Not knowing's a bitch, isn't it?

We'll put up signs. I don't have much hope. Poor sweet old Moe. He was such a good bo bo kitty.