Last night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I could hear one of the cats in the hallway crying. This has been happening a lot. It is usually Mirren. She sits in the hallway, crying out. As I listened, I thought about what losing Katy must be like for the cats. Confusion, maybe? Do they feel her loss? I’m sure they do, not the same way I feel it, but they feel it.
For the cats it was sudden. One morning Katy was not in her spot on the couch. For them she just left. They never did go into her room when the Hospice bed became her permanent place of rest. She was not there to greet them in the morning with those loving caresses and kind words she always shared first thing. For them I imagine it is an emptiness that they can’t explain. Her scent still lingers in the house, but they can’t find her.
They may not have the emotional attachment to her memory that I do, or maybe they do. But I am sure they feel her loss. It would explain why they both, Mirren especially, have been clinging to me at every step. The minute I open the bedroom door in the morning, they are both sitting there, waiting for me to open the door. Or maybe they are waiting for her, hoping that she steps out again. When my work day is over and I sit on the couch in the evening, Mirren is immediately on my lap. I wish I could explain to them what happened, give them both some kind of closure.
I just tell them she is on vacation.
And Now She is Gone 
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