I unexpectedly found myself in dress pants, my gardening shirt, a hunting jacket, and sockless in my old kitchen clogs that were still stained from flour and sugar the weekend before walking southward on Calford Avenue screaming out my cat’s name – Cid – at 7:23 in the morning. I was only just showered and my hair still wet and tousled. Unready in the slightest to be seen by another person and barely sure what day it was still. Yet, regardless, and even without my usual jolt of caffeine, fear was enough to propel me through the cold drizzle.
Because my baby was missing.
All I could think of was last night - sitting in bed reading with Cid purring contently on my lap - could not be the last time I had him with me. The universe could not allow it to be this way. The universe and circumstance could not let my last interaction with Cid be me kicking him off at four in the morning because he insisted on sleeping over my knees and buckling them as a purr-crazy feline show of affection.
Cid, my companion of the last ten years who had seen me through break-ups and an engagement, college and grad school, who had listened quietly and intently to my ramblings, who creeped on to the couch to sit on my nap like a ninja so that I couldn't possibly see him coming in case I wasn’t in the mood, and who rode around on Fiance’s shoulder’s like a pirate’s parrot…
This could not be actually happening.
But it was.