Proof The Bible Is True

“Marion, why don’t you get another cat?” a friend suggested one day last spring. “You loved Minnie.”

 

“That’s exactly why I don’t want another one now,” I said. “That cat broke my heart. I’m not ready to go through something like that again.”

 

Two years had passed since we put down Minnie at age seventeen. I still missed her every day. I missed her spying out our living room curtains at the bird feeder, running to rub against my legs every time she heard the false promise of the electric can opener.

 

There were those luminous yellow eyes blinking “hello” to Gene and me when we walked in the door, and the little thump she made jumping up on our bed at night and settling down contentedly between us. I missed that thump. But most of all, there were those recurring dreams I had.

 

“Besides,” I told my friend, “things are easier now. No more cat hair all over everything. And Gene and I can take last-minute trips without feeling guilty.” No, it wouldn’t make any sense to get another cat. End of story.

 

Not quite. That night I had the dream again.  Cats of all kinds trailing me as if I were the Pied Piper of tuna. Stop it, Marion! I told myself in the morning. Dream cats aren’t real cats. They never die and leave you grieving.

 

Read More: The Cat of Her Dreams