A few weeks ago, I was out on my morning trot when I saw a small piece of paper stapled to a wooden bollard at an intersection. It was one of those Lost Cat signs that go up in the neighborhood every so often. This particular sign brought me up short, though, because I recognized the cat who was lost: Earl.
Readers may remember my earlier run-in with Earl. In the couple of years since, we had more or less made our peace; or it might be more accurate to say I had made my peace with him, since I don’t think he ever really cared how I felt about anything. But our interactions were cordial enough. When I saw him, I’d stop and give him some pets, he would twine around my ankles, and then, before I continued on, I’d clap and holler and in general make what I hoped was enough ruckus to frighten off whatever small creature he might have had his eye on. In this way, we had our own little ritual.
I looked at the sign and considered its implications. Given that Earl had not been home for a few days, I was pretty sure he had met his end in the maw of one of the coyotes known to inhabit the trail where I run. Someone had also seen a large bobcat moving through the area in recent weeks. Earl was not the top predator of these woods, in other words.
“Aww, Earl, I’m sorry,” I said aloud. Around me, the birds chirped and called.
It’s been a month now and the signs for Earl are still up. Hope is always the last thing to die, I guess.
