Once every year or so, the cat goes missing for the better part of a day. Because he does it so rarely, it always throws me; I just expect him to be shadowing my every move, sleeping just near enough but not touching while I read or write, yowling and biting if my arm strays to close.
This morning, Brian washed my hair for me in the sink. I've got stitches on my shoulder that mustn't get wet, so I put on my raincoat and wrapped a dishtowel around my neck. The warm water felt so delightful on my filthy little head, warm and soft and full of memories of how my mom used to wash my hair when I was little, with warm water in a tin pitcher. We had a picture book that showed vikings bathing the same way.
Anyway. I'm sure the cat will be home soon. In fact, I keep expecting him to walk in as I type this, a swaggering, bald-ass* cat conjured by my deliberate busywork.
It's been a long week, kitten. Won't you please come home?
* I'm not sure if I mentioned this, but the cat's butt was half shaved for his surgery last month. It's just starting to grow back, and its all soft and downy like a baby chicken. A baby chicken attached to the posterior of a very crabby cat.