I found a tuft of Bootsie's fur at the site of her doom. And another pound of it on my bed where she used to sleep.
With all the hubbub of that night I wasn't so much sad as I was astounded, shocked and horrified at the tremendous drama of the cat snatch, the water gush, the hot sauce in the eye.
The grieving did come, when I cozied with her brother Artsie, aka Mr. Cat. I buried my face in his curl where I heard the teeniest tiniest purr a cat can make. It was only audible because my ear was buried deep in his belly. And that made me think of this: maybe cats purr all the time. Like a kitty pilot light, maybe we can only hear the purr when they turn it up for us.
It was the sound of his purr that made me miss her purr, and then I cried for her. And it felt kind of good to cry. Having Mither Cyat there as my silent witness helped, too. In fact, that's when cats are at their best, when they're listening in silence. They are so aloof when you demand their attention, but when you are still and quiet, even if it is the sad zone, or the sick zone, that's when a cats' quiet ways turn from cold and remote to there for you.
I've found there is no shortage of people who have a dead cat story to swing. I have a few less recent versions of those stories myself. Still, even though it has been a short time since yesterday, I think I'm done sharing my story. Next time someone asks how I'm doing, I'll give them the usual, "Fine thanks, and you?" instead of the "Where do you want me to start?" Bootsie is gone and that's all folks.
It did occur to me that Mercury went retrograde on Monday, so I'm not so naive as to assume they'll be no more drama between now and June 19 when it goes direct again. I just hope I get to keep the boy cat around to sop up any stray tears. If he gets grabbed by a coyote, my next post will no doubt be entitled, "Shotgun Wanted".