Tuesday night post Wilma, my ground floor aparment starts mysteriously dripping water from the bathroom fan vent. I load up some stuff and drive up to Orlando. When I get there (giving the parents a not entirely pleasant surprise), I hear some unwelcome news:
“Your cat died. Dad buried him in the backyard.”
It didn’t really start sinking in until I was summoned to clean out the various paraphenelia (including the litter, which still had several days worth of ‘souveniers’).
And then it REALLY hit me.
No more gray-black furball underfoot.
No more piteous meowing at odd hours of the night because of banishment to the back porch.
No more fuzzy guardian at the foot of the bed, nosing me in the morning to feed him.
No more purring machine to pet, cuddle, and otherwise spoil rotten.
At least all the leftover stuff (food, litter, toys, and whatnot) is going to good use.