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.
Igor.
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.
