Harry

A disproportionate number of kitty photos that appear in my memory feed are of Harry. A sleek, chiseled grey beauty named after my father. He was tough. No one messed with him. One summer he came home with claw marks extended down both sides of his face. He obviously got away from the clutches of something fierce to come home to me. 

Along with the dogs and numerous other cats, Harry slept with me. He would bend down close to my face and nudge me hard so it wouldn't take long at all to get attention. Then I would pat him in long strokes with a force that would send him off balance. He craved sensory input. When I got tired and stopped, he nudged and when that didn't work he often bit me. He drove me crazy with his need for attention, but even before his disappearance more that a year and a half ago I know how much I loved him. He initiated and I reciprocated the adoration. When he got his fill he would nestle into my back and sleep, the weight of his frame nudging me awake through the night acknowledging his presence.

My Harry. After all these months, I still anticipate your return. Stranger things have happened.