I put on the flannel sheets this morning. Doing so for the first time each season always reminds me of the second cat to grace my home.
He was a street cat who claimed me on cold December day. When he found me he was missing half his fur. He limped. The vet later told me he had broken his leg at some point. He was skinny as could be.
By spring he was gorgeous and sleek. Pure black, exotic yellow eyes. With a Siamese voice that echoed throughout the house. He would sit in the attic and scream. I’d go running, sure he was in tremendous peril only to find him sitting on the railing, waiting for me to pet him. Yes, he laughed every time.
The next fall when I put the flannel sheets on he was the happiest kitty ever. He never seemed to be able to get warm enough. All summer he’d sleep on the navy blue beanbag chair in the sunbeam in the attic. As soon as those sheets were on he burrowed into them. I’d have to go get him when it was time to eat. When he was done he’d go straight back up to his cozy little nest. He was nice though. At bedtime he’d scoot over and give me a bit of space so I could join him.
He’s been gone for years. Every time I put on the sheets though, I can feel him with me that first night. I expect to hear him later, calling me to curl up with him.