It is possible, although not likely, that my cat will return. I know that it is, in many ways, my fault he is missing. I let him outside that Tuesday evening. He always goes out at least twice a day. Once in the morning where he goes across the yard to the house behind ours, climbs up their stairs, peeks in at Rich and Pam’s two cats, wanders down to our next-door neighbors, wrapping around their familiar legs as they pull weeds from their legs, around to the front where he sits on their porch, then back home to the picnic table upon which he jumps up to stare through the window, impatiently, while I take a photo to post to Facebook. Every day for two years I posted a photo of him looking in at me as he stood upon the picnic table until I let him in. I typed my morning letters as he ate his breakfast.
I know it is frowned upon to let cats out. Cats kill birds, and Zane did sometimes—not often, he had a big bell on his collar—but often enough to make him a predator. I warned him, you play this game, it might come back to bite you in the ass. They call bells on collars “coyote dinner bells.� And you’re also not supposed to let them out because the world outdoors is dangerous. See Coyote. See Car. See Trapped in Garage. See Anti-freeze tastes delicious but will kill you.
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