[WOODPIE]

At the end of the day, this last Friday, I found myself lingering around the shop, at work, not wanting to go home. I should have wanted to go home; it being Friday and all, and I had gotten a big Christmas bonus that morning, so I should have been looking forward to wrapping up the last few details of Christmas preparation with my wife, and to having a few hours of relaxation to tide us over these next hectic holidays.

No. There I was, wandering around the shop, and sort of dreading the thought of going home. Finally, I found myself in the hall, staring out the front door, where, almost exactly one year ago, a tiny grey-over-white kitten wandered up. Underfed and filthy, and sporting a raw open sore on the back of it's neck, I took that kitten in and adopted it. We had her attended to medically, and had her neutered, to match our other cat, Rocky. We named her Adrianne, but I called her Miss Poo, because of her ability to overwhelm a catbox in one day.

Addy was good company for the older Rocky as a kitten, but ended up being the dominate cat, owing mostly to her youth, I'd guess. She had her own personality quirks; she hated walking on the carpet in the living room, so she would jump from one piece of furniture to the next to get where she wanted to go; she'd sneak into the bedroom to nap on the foot of our bed, even though each time she was caught at it, she faced the wrath of my wife, who would chase her out of the house with a pillow or fly-swatter or roled-up newspaper, whatever was close at hand. We trained her to sit up on her haunches and beg for cat treats, and Suz, my wife, trained her to shake hands (sort of). She was trained to take her business outside, and she would scratch at the door loudly and furiously to be let out and in, a mixed blessing, I'd say.

So these things, and others, passed though my mind, staring out the front door of my business, late Friday afternoon. Earlier that afternoon, I had taken a rare and tearfilled call from Suz, asking me to please come home, Addy was in the middle of the street.

"Has she been run over?"
"Y-yes..."

So, I went home, and we buried poor Addy under the apple tree in the backyard. Rocky was watching and meowed some. I went back to work, and toyed with the idea of channeling all my sadness and gloom into hate for the unknown taker of my cat's life.

But what I was reluctant to go home to, standing there in the doorway, was the husbandly duty of comforting my wife's grief, and allowing her to comfort me.

The house is just a little bit quieter this Sunday night. Rocky's still here, of course, and deep down he's probably enjoying his regained monopoly for our affection. He spends more time napping next to me on the couch, and he doesn't have to share his food bowl anymore. But I think I see him, now and again, looking around corners or out the kitchen door, for his buddy. And he sometimes sees me doing the same.

on-ramp, take some comfort, that you provided Kiwi with a good and healthy life, and returned all his love in kind.

Ed