After almost two full weeks of being away from home, I sorely missed my furry family. To be fair, I missed my sons as well, and am grateful to them for holding down the fort in my absence. My homecoming was a mixed bag of reactions, canine vs. feline.
|My baby, Rascal|
Then there were the cats. One of our fosters wouldn’t move her eyes off of me from the moment I walked in the door. She followed me from room to room, and was visibly thrilled when I took time out to pet her.
The others? It seemed pretty obvious they’d already forgotten who I was. Me – the one who always feeds them, cleans their boxes, gives them spa treatments, lets them lounge all over her while she works and again when she’s trying to sleep.
Some outright looked at me as if to say, “Who the hell are you? And, are you of any use to me??” Others barely glanced in my direction for a moment. Even “my baby”, Rascal, looked through me. The one who’d, in the past, shove the others away so he could have Mom all to himself. It seemed clear to me: cats don’t remember you.
That night, as I lay down to sleep, a ball of fur plastered itself against my face. I couldn’t breathe with all the hair in my way, yet when I moved my head – the ball of fur moved as well. Someone apparently did miss me more than he let on.
Welcome home, Mom.