This post was going to be about my weekend, which I spent in Florida with Adam, but we are a little antisocial so I didn’t come home on Sunday with a whole lot to work with. And the next day I learned my cat left my parents’ home and returned to his life on the streets, so I’m not even in the mood to buy an expensive product under the guise of reviewing it for this blog.
I got Bruce at the Humane Society last September. He was two years old at the time and in the middle of his second stay there after running away from the first family who adopted him. He had recently graduated from Phat Camp (their spelling) and things were looking up when he tested negative for feline aids after an initial false positive.
I met Bruce and his friends and went home to consider, then met with him again the next day and decided to take him home. He quickly put back on the weight he’d lost at Phat Camp but otherwise seemed happy to tear up an ever-larger patch of my living room carpet.
In June, I moved to a small apartment downtown. Seventeen-pound Bruce took up roughly half of it, and without carpet he resorted to sharpening his claws on my mattress each morning at four. In August, I decided to move him to my parents’ house where he could run around outside.
Bruce loved his new home. He caught a mouse every day and placed it in the middle of the deck. He took long naps on the front walk in thirty-five-degree weather. He explored the woods in the pouring rain.
And then last week he went out and didn’t come back, and I have just written a eulogy for a cat. I’ll end it with this if you want to feel better about yourself today: for a second when my mom broke the news, I hoped she would say a distant relative was gone instead of Bruce.
Luckily Adam’s Jojo is in perfect health.
Those are the only pictures I took this weekend. Sorry if you don’t like cats.