On the day we found out we’d lost the baby, this cat showed up in our carport. She snuck into our house as we were shuffling kids into the car and curled up on the sofa and went to sleep like she’d lived here her whole life. Later that night she crawled into bed with us and slept curled in the crook of our legs.

And I protested about not needing another animal. Or my not so happy feelings about cats. Don’t hate me for saying this. The thing is, I’m just not a cat person. Much to Thomas’ dismay I’ve just never enjoyed the company of cats.  So, I complained about this intrusion. But the truth is I was a little happy about it. It’s a strange and difficult thing for me to admit to actually liking a cat. But she was sweet. And pretty. And declawed. And just kind of nice to have around.

So, the kids named her Mrs. Hannigan and we tried unsuccessfully to find her owners. When it was clear she either had no longer had a home or that her home was unfindable we decided to keep her. She loved to sneak outside during the day and run around the yard before coming back within an hour or two. She snuggled with Kai in the top bunk. She sat and watched TV with Thomas. She was becoming our cat.

But today she snuck outside and wasn’t back within an hour or two. And then she wasn’t back by bedtime. And then we didn’t see her again. Which, in a bizarre turn of events, made me cry. For a cat. That I didn’t want in the first place. (I’m sure there is some psychological theory about misplaced grief that would easily explain this.)

So, now I’m sitting up at 1:15 a.m. checking the back door like crazy to see if Mrs. Hannigan is waiting to be let in. And I feel like crying every time I don’t see her there. It’s possible I have some emotions that need to be worked through. But, in the meantime, I’m crossing my fingers that Mrs. Hannigan will show up tomorrow…