Saying Goodbye

After 16 1/2 years of faithful companionship, our cat, Pinatubo (aka 'Tubers', 'Fathead', 'Kitty') failed to come up for breakfast two Sundays ago. We have looked for him in bushes, under the house, in gutters and sewers, in the golf course gully near our home. We dug through the neighbor's bushes at the risk of being arrested as peeping toms. We called him and called him, looking in all his favorite hangouts, only to stand wishful and lonely.

It's hard to let go of a pet. Especially one that has been a part of my family longer than my kids have been alive. Outside of all the turtles, hermit crabs, and the occasional frog or lizard, Tubers is the only companion pet they have ever known. He was there when they were born. He followed them when they learned to walk. He wandered around the yard with them as they drove their trucks and chased them down the driveway as they rode their bicycles.

Even after two weeks, I find myself still sitting in my office, glancing out the window, hoping that I'll see the ole Fathead walking up the drive complaining that I haven't fed him.