Pushkin: Missing

Suddenly you realise it's no longer there, that presence at your ankles, that welcome on your doormat, that shedded hair on the car roof. No cries in the night. Pushkin is vanished.

So many times I found him on the corner waiting for me to come back, but after I while I realised the whole street was his domain, and everyone belonged to him. He would go in the corner shop even though he'd been told not to, he'd go a block or more in each direction. He probably even went to the pub, because he'd be old enough in cat years. I bet he drinks Guinness.

There's a sign in the corner shop window; he has left no forwarding address. I hope he's adopted someone, let them take him to a better place, where people get the hints that he wants you to buy the cat food he's sitting next to. It's like kids bothering you to get them cigarettes even though they are underage.

Check your sheds. Check your outhouses.