I can no longer deny this fact. I haven’t seen his plump gray body for over a week. Of course he disappears sometimes, off on unknown adventures in the pine forest along the water, but never for this long. I’ve searched in the garden, by the pier, and in the woods between the house and the main road. I’ve inspected the treetops in case he’s gotten himself stuck up there. I’ve set out bowls of his favorite food on the lawn and waited. I felt certain he would soon return, curl his soft body next to mine in bed and, unconcerned by my fretting, carry on his usual carefree cat life. That’s why this evening I am standing outside again, peering out over the little patch of grass in my yard that extends like a shaggy sun-bleached rug all the way to where the softly rounded, gray granite cliffs begin. Along the side of the shed, nettles grow yard-high. Every spring I tell myself I should dig them up, but of course I don’t. Sometimes I find comfort in knowing that I am incapable of change; it gives me a sense of security in a world where nothing is constant and reliable.
