I have been avoiding writing this, so let’s get this over with. Last weekend, I noticed I hadn’t seen Claude here in – well, I wasn’t completely sure. I saw him on Friday, then – did I see him Saturday? I can’t say. As the week began, I was nervous and uncomfortable when I didn’t see him. The people he belongs to don’t speak English well, so I couldn’t figure out how to ask what had happened. There seemed to be only a few possibilities and I didn’t like them. On Wednesday, I realized I wasn’t going to see Claude again.
On Thursday, I printed out this picture and walked across the street. I pointed at the picture and gestured around. Where’s this cat? The man called to a young woman who is either his daughter or his daughter-in-law, who told me the cat died over the weekend. She wasn’t at home when it happened, but a speeding police car ran over some broken plastic, which killed the cat. I didn’t ask any questions. I told her the cat was a sweet little guy and I’d miss him. She seemed very surprised that I’d taken a picture of him. She said he was eight years old.
So Claude is dead and I miss that guy.