November 7th 2014
" Crunchies on the counter
Blanket's on the chair
John Galt's on the doorstep
But you're not there.
Everything is everything.
Everything is everything.
But you're missing.
You're missing.
You're missing
When I shut off the light
You're missing
When I close my eyes
You're missing
When I see the sun rise
You're missing."
Words adapted from the Bruce Springsteen song "You're Missing".

September 14th 2014
Last night, alone on the deck in the dark, a memory flashed back to me like a lightening strike: the first time I held Taggart she bit me and drew blood. The kittens had come to us at the beginning of July in 2011. They were 6 or 7 weeks old and completely feral. Their mother was tame and a very sweet cat but her babies were wild. We fed them on the front porch of our old house where it was cool under the vines growing along the Victorian gingerbread trim and railings. After a week we could approach the kittens very slowly but time was running out and if there was to be any chance that they would be domesticated we had to start getting them used to human touch. We started by stroking them with fingers and talking to them as they ate. Poor results at first; they would run but eventually hunger would win and they returned to the food and the stroking fingers. After about a week of this feeding routine the kittens, they had not been named yet, were playing on the porch one afternoon after eating. It was time to be held. The little orange male was first. He was the bravest of the kittens. I picked him up when he wasn't looking. He squirmed and meowed but I stroked him for a few moments and then let him go. The copper toned tabby was next. Catching her unaware, I scooped her up and held her in both hands, although she was so little I hardly needed more than one. She became a ball of anger, yowling and hissing, squirming and scratching while I held on and stroked her head, neck and back with two fingers. I was pleased that I had caught the most wild of the kittens and while congratulating myself on a job well done the copper toned tabby turned her head and sunk her little needle like canine deep into my index finger. I dropped her on the porch, cursing the pain and watching the blood spurt from my puncture wound. Taggart won the first round but there was still a long, hot, dry summer ahead of us.

September 12th 2014
A most curious thing happened this morning. John Galt, Taggart's orange tabby brother, and I woke up while Tim slept in the big bed with Salander curled up at his feet. We went to the kitchen together, he for breakfast and me for coffee. After eating John Galt went outside. I made my coffee and then went out myself to feel the dark of the morning before sunrise. From where I was standing on the deck I could see John Galt sitting not 30 centimeters from the spot where Taggart had died. I called his name but he ignored me, looking all around except in my direction. The way he moved his head told me he was not casually looking but actively searching. He did this for the length of time it takes to smoke a cigarette. He then got up and walked to that very spot and began sniffing the ground there, moving around it then returning to it over and over again, always sniffing. Rain earlier in the week had washed away the small stain of blood left on the ground from Taggart's puncture wound so I knew there was nothing of her to be found at that sad little spot. When he finally finished sniffing he ran across the street to the park to the giant neighborhood litter box, what people call a sand volleyball court. So what to think of John Galt's actions? It was probably simply coincidental that he was there behaving like that, and yet I wonder.

September 10th 2014
Taggart, beautiful copper toned tabby cat, a most beloved little friend. She died this past Saturday morning at 3 o'clock. There are no memories to write because she has yet to become a memory to me. I am in that shadowland between our past together and my future without her. Memories do not come in this grayness. When her ashes are returned to me I will bring her back to her home. Then the memories can begin. For now I call her name, look for her in the garden, wonder why she isn't greeting me at the door, and feel the empty place in the big bed.

"Hey little princess, hey little pea
Come down from your tower and dance with me."