Missy

Two years gone now, since the night you went home. Little street mommy, scrounging in the trash can on a warm summer afternoon, a baby yourself and already pregnant. The minute I picked you up and you draped over my shoulder I knew you'd found your home. Soft shiny calico fur and the biggest green eyes I'd ever seen, and you looked at me with so much trust.

I remember that sunny Sunday you gave birth. We made you a nesting box in each room, and played Bach soft and soothing on the stereo, but you decided your babies should enter the world in front of the sofa, right on the carpet. I'll never forget the look on your face when the first one popped out! For fourteen weeks nobody wore shoes in the house, and everybody shuffled for fear of stepping on scattered kittens. We used up every connection we had to place all eight of them.

Then you settled into your role as grand dame of the estate, elegant, sophisticated, except when you curled up like a baby in the crook of my arm every night. You would sit in the window every day accepting the adoration of the school kids passing by, pointing at the pretty cat.

When Bobthecat came to live with us you were mightily put out, but after a time you accepted him as your annoying but lovable kid brother. And when Casey came you were his mommy and protector. You helped him to know that love is indeed possible in this world.

I was thinking of you tonight. Jane is away and I'm feeding her kids for the week. When I left her apartment Luca and Ollie were sleeping the sleep of the well fed, sleek and happy. I remembered how you used to love to lie on my stomach after your dinner, purring and kneading. I used to call you the boneless cat, for the way you adapted to any position I happened to be in.

You lived with me for nineteen years, and I wish I'd cherished the time more than I did. I know I got more than I gave, every day of those years. As you grew older you slept more and more, but still you always came to the door to greet me when I came home. You grew thin, and frail, but you were always happy when I came home. And two years ago today, when you were ready to make your last trip, I went with you as far as I was allowed, and I held you in my lap when you let go your last breath and lay still. The radio was playing "Long Journey." I walked home from the vet's office on a windy starry night, watching your soul playing in the clouds, young and free.

"My darling, my darling,

my heart breaks

as you make

your long journey...."

Two years gone. I still miss you, girl.