RIP Heidegger

Until a couple of months ago, I had a cat. One among many, really, but she was dear, had made herself dear, by wit, and charm and persistence. She was quite beautiful: black, long hair, petite, delicate, shy, loving. And a troo demon when it came to being an inside cat.

Often during her life, I felt like she was the woman in the Thurber cartoon. Every crack, crevice, screen, window, even second story windows were hers: we had to put chicken wire over the screens in the upstairs windows to keep her from tearing them out on her way in.

Once inside, the place she most wanted to be was on your lap. Once there, she kneaded, purred, and drooled until both of us were wet.

This spring, while I was away, and a neighbor was feeding the cats, she disappeared. We just found her in the attic. She'd climbed in through the rafters, curled up on an old Santa's sled, and gone to sleep forever. I don't know why. But maybe she decided I'd been gone so long that I wouldn't be coming back for her and she just died of a broken heart?