It’s been a tough week for us.
I awoke yesterday morning knowing Burtie was gone. The first thing I asked Ed was if he’d seen him. Now, the kitten had spent most of the night with us, so I had no reason to think something had happened. Ed thought he had, but I knew. An hour later Al stopped by to say that Burtie was in the road.
Burtie was fascinated with Trigo, their palomino and Trigo returned the affection. I’m sure he’d gone over to visit, then decided to follow Webster across the road. Webster, being much old and raised in the city next to a very busy street, is far more car savvy.
So here we are again, down to our usual four cats, the number we’ve maintained for the 25 years of our marriage. That’s not enough to handle the gopher problem, especially now that Nona has decided it’s not safe to be outside. (They must have been together as a group when Walter was attacked; she hasn’t spent much time outside since then.)
I really do need cats, working cats. Cats without names and unconnected to my heart. I need what I’ve always wanted for this place: a feral, matriarchal pride of hunters who feed themselves on the bounty that our acreage can definitely supply.