Pushkin: Missing

[faustus]

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.

Comments

All cats are grey after midnight

[drasecretcampus.livejournal.com]

You never met him did you? I do like that proverb, I like it a lot, man.

But damn you, damn you to heck. I was going to turn in when I noticed your comment. You know where I've been. And you can guess who I was with. And where I ended up. Mucho gossip to impart if you deign to show your face round this parts.