A story with a sad beginning and an ending that hasn't completely unfolded yet.
My sweet Inca became, suddenly, very ill two weeks ago. He quickly and steadily slid downhill as we stood by helplessly watching. All of the possible diagnoses and outcomes were uniformly grim. Last Tuesday, I did the only kind thing I could and euthanized him.
It was a very bad few days that we have had here. Inca was a shooting star of a cat. He lived intensely, always ready to make the leap. Climbing the screen door instead of politely requesting to be let out. Sneak attacking us when he wanted to play. And when he was after a little cuddle, he climbed as close to my face as possible, practically around my neck. He was my companion for only eight months and, oh my!, what a companion he was. He followed me to the studio getting into any sort of trouble available and always, always leaving a smile on my face and a lightness in my heart.
{"Oh you are such a good boy, Inca! Well ... no not really: you are a bad boy, but I love you." }
The only consolation is that we gave Inca the best 8 months of his life and a humane death. The sadness came in huge sweeping waves.
Friday night, I was sitting on our porch enjoying the cool September evening. Crickets, the moon, a cool breeze and a meow. A meow? Really? Yes, and there it was again. Coming from our busy corner. I went inside for my shoes and by the time I was heading out the front door to investigate, there is an orange cat sitting on my front stoop. I sat down and he threw himself onto the step, purring and letting me pet him.
I invited him in, of course. He barely hesitated. I pulled out Inca's dishes and filled them up with fresh food and water. He ate. Figuring that it was too late for anything else, I retrieved Inca's litter box and filled it. Little orange kitty came around to investigate and seemed to approve. He was going to spend the night. Imagine Jon's surprise when he came home from band practice and found kitty snuggled up with me in bed.

