You’ll remember that poor Zoë died last Wednesday, and we’ve been adjusting to her absence ever since. It’s strange how many times through the day you’ll expect to see a lost pet. For example, coming from upstairs to down, if Zoë wasn’t with us on the bed, it was a given she’d be found sitting on the edge of the dining room rug, awaiting her next feeding. And when I arrived to find her there, I’d always say, “Hello, Zoë” in the manner of Jerry Seinfeld saying, “Hello, Newman.” It was just a thing. Anyway, you really start to count these instances up. Sad. Happy. Sad. Wistful. Etc . . .
Then came Monday. It was spitting rain all morning, so I delayed my start and brewed a second pot of coffee and just took in the day. Around 10 o’clock, I wandered out to the front door and looked out into the yard to find . . . a Siamese cat out there. I kid you not. I went out and tried to coax him over, but he wouldn’t cover the last fifteen feet or so between us. I went back in to get a dish of food for him, but when I came back he’d gone and the rain had returned. I told Dr. Evil about it, but she hadn’t see him. I thought I might be going a little loco. What are the odds of a Siamese cat wandering across our property in the middle of nowhere? Slim, I think. I left the food dish out and found that it had been emptied a while later. But we often feed Napoleon (the cat, not the emperor), so that wasn’t unexpected. Later in the afternoon I was able to point out the little guy to Dr. Evil, just before he disappeared into the brush. As is my wont, I worried about the guy and kept an eye out for him all of Tuesday, but never saw him again.
On Wednesday morning, I woke up remembering a dream I’d had just prior to waking up, and I told Dr. Evil all about it, because who isn’t fascinated by someone else’s dream? The short version is that the wayward Siamese came to us, and I was able to somehow divine his name: T49. I then left for Charleston (oh, the exciting life I lead!), and about halfway there received a text from Dr. Evil featuring a photo of the littlest Siamese. He came back, and she was able to coax him into eating. He was still sticking around when I returned home, and seemed fearless of me, even in my big boots. He ate and ate, and napped and napped, and with evening coming on, I opened the door to see if he’d be bold enough to come into the house. He was so brave. And here’s where it gets spooky again: he went directly to the spot where Zoë died, and curled into a cat doughnut and fell asleep.
The extra spooky detail? Just before I woke on the morning Zoë died, I dreamt that she did, and very much as she did.
We’ve continued to feed this little kitten, and on Friday I took him to the vet to get checked out. Guess what. Not a kitten. By the looks of his teeth, the vet estimated his age at around seven years. He weighed in that morning at a hair over three pounds. He’s on a whole mess of medicines now and appears to be putting on weight. My read is that someone dumped him on our country road. I hate people. Except you, readers, except you.
We’ve decided that we probably won’t be keeping the nameless cat, but we are going to get him healthy. It’s the least we can do, and it feels like we’ve been chosen somehow.
