Babee has velvety, dense, soft fur. She smells really good. She has a routine which involves plenty of cuddles, much purring, and predictable comings and goings. So, when she didn’t come home last Thursday night, it was alarming. Nobody had seen her for three hours. Luckily the boys weren’t there because I couldn’t have broken it to them. My house-mate and I drove around the streets fearing for what we might find in a broken mass on the deathly bitumen. Luckily there was no such mass.
It was a dreadful and fretful night. When it wasn’t me standing at the front door – hoping silently and desperately to see our little black and white friend coming home – it was my house-mate keeping watch. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I prayed a pleading prayer that she would be alright. Because I couldn’t cope with more grief just yet. It was that very same day that I had marvelled, on my way home from work, that the tears were finally beginning to flow after a horrible couple of months, where we lost two of our larger-than-life and much loved clients – one to a drug overdose, and one to a brutal murder. Grief is a strange thing but I knew for sure that I couldn’t stand losing my little fluff-ball of solace.
Next morning my housey called out to see how long I would be in the bathroom, then she went out the back-yard. Babee was curled up in a shivery ball on one of the garden chairs. She was traumatised and quiet. Who knows what caused her trauma? It took a few days but now it is as though we never lost her. Thank you God.