Sprawled out on the carpet for a quick breathing session — a nice meditation. No sooner do I send my consciousness out than something comes nosing by, its little pawprints loud on the carpet. It’s not Trixie, who’s loafed up by the door. It’s not Bodie, because I would’ve heard him jump off my bed. Adalyne went downstairs.
And I’m not surprised there’s a fourth option, seeing as we had two cats before this lovely bunch, both of whom were attached long enough to hang on beyond “their time” — we had to put both down, including the one who was dying by inches underneath the computer desk. Sometimes, I feel them on the duvet over my legs; I look up and nobody’s there, not visibly, so I know who it has to be.
You can call it schizophrenia. I call it ghosts.
It’s the best explanation. When your baby boy leaves you, he will visit you in your dreams, and you’ll wake up knowing he was there. Also, there’s Mavis to explain. Eventually it will occur to you that you might be dragging her along for the ride. Her punishment for hurting Dad? There’s just so much neither of us can explain. Why bother trying? Accept it as it is.