Two nights ago I had a talk with my daughter about our kitty. Willy died this past July, just after his tenth birthday. Everyone has pretty much gotten over it except for me. Or so I thought.
We had just finished eating and were relaxing in the living room. My daughter suddenly looks around, obviously searching for something specific, then turns back to and says, "Where kitty?" She's only 19 months old; I had assumed she didn't even notice that he was gone as she had never said anything about it.
"Kitty's gone. Willy's gone," I told her.
I could see the wheels turning in her head, trying to process this. She asked again, "Where kitty?"
"Kitty went bye-bye."
"Yeah," she replied, not so much agreeing with me, but stating that she understood that.
So, it was this that came to mind this morning as the children and I walked down the stairs on our way to take Atticus to school and we came upon a small silver and black kitten wandering about the stairwell.
"Kitty!" All three of the children cried and pointed to the kitten. I told them that if he was still there when we came back that we would try to help him, but for now we needed to get to school.
Everyone was okay with this, and, lo and behold, when we returned, the kitten was waiting just inside the door to the stairs where we had left him (though he could have easily wandered back up stairs and around through the apartment building.)
Needless-to-say, I write this now with my daughter in my lap, a small kitten sleeping in hers. We posted a sign in the common area stating that we found a kitten. Now we wait. Though, I'm hoping if someone is going to claim him, that they do so soon: I threw out the litterbox after Willy died and will have to go buy a new one; kitty is getting antsy and is eying up the plants.
Throwing the Bones