May 19

It’s six in the morning. I just woke up, and I have to pee. 

But I feel something. A rumbling, traveling up my leg to the calf. And I hear something, the unmistakable rasp of Julie’s purr. 


Wonder how long I can hold this pee inside. 


Today of all days, I might prefer to just piss myself, if the other options is disturbing her perfect sanctity and ending this moment. 


Half an hour passes, and I do not regret this decision at all. (No, I didn’t piss myself, but I came pretty close.) 


An hour passes. At this point, I have to get up and get ready for work. I lean up, leaving my legs as they were. Her head perks up to look at me. This is all part of an established routine: I awake with Julie on my legs, I arise to pet her without moving my legs, she soaks in the attention and then springs awake, ready to lead me in the direction of her bowl. 


Today, she stays on the bed longer than usual. Perhaps she has the sense of the fleeting nature of these moments. They say cats have a sense of their own mortality. Perhaps she has begun to accept her own. Or perhaps this morning she just decided to relax on my legs for a few extra minutes.


She rises, and I begin an accelerated version of my morning routine. When I go downstairs to feed her, though, she’s nowhere to be found.


Now this, this is an anomaly.


It’s the first time I can recall this happening — ever, frankly. 


But, she ate last night, and otherwise seemed fine. 


A one-off? Or an alarm bell?


I’m assuming everything is the latter at this point. 


Equally troubling, I need to medicate her, but she’s nowhere to be found and I have to go to work. I usually give her medication before meals. 


I check her usual spots, and she’s not in any of them.


Her favorite spot is the bed in the guest bedroom, where she will curl up under the covers near the head of the bed. (It’s adorable. A photo will be coming at some point.) 


Other spots include: under the sitting room couch, the futon in the sun room, the top cushion of the living room couch, the bed in the master bedroom, and behind the door in my office. 


I know it’s a nice-sized house and all, but how can it be so hard to find the cat when you need to?


This can’t be a good sign. But all I can do right now is drive to the train station, worry, and think. 

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