I heard the words.
What I saw was a soaked kitten beneath tree roots.
“How did he get here?” I asked.
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There were possibilities. Someone might have kept him unlawfully, then lost or abandoned him. But nobody had evidence that settled it.
His life before that cold November evening remained a question.
I thought back through every odd moment.
The way he flattened himself when unfamiliar people entered.
How carefully he chose places where nobody could approach from behind.
His refusal to be handled like the cats I remembered from childhood.
I had explained everything by saying he’d had a rough start.
That explanation had been true.
It simply hadn’t been complete.
For the next several days, I worried about every decision I had made.
Had I fed him properly? Given him enough room? Mistaken tolerance for comfort?
I asked more questions than I had asked in four years.
