LUCILLE & BUDDY

A few years ago, I was walking my dog in my neighborhood, and had arrived at a strip of grass where everyone takes their pet canines to “do their job.”

As my Queenie proceeded to do what all dogs do, a car stopped next to me, the window on the passenger side of the vehicle lowered, and I found myself looking at a thirty something year old woman.

“Uhmm, I’m looking for my cat. He’s very old, he’s grey and mostly blind. He got away from me this morning, and I wonder if you have seen him?”

To which I responded,

“No ma’am. I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him.”

“Lucille” thanked me, rolled the window back up, and proceeded down Shadow Wood Lane.

Having finished my task, I walked Queenie back to the house, sat down, and took in a bit of news on TV. Afterwards, I made myself a sandwich, and walked into the dining room. It was then I saw it, or rather I saw them.

Lucille was sitting in a patch of ivy in the front yard of the house across from my own home. In her arms she held a cat. However, the cat she was holding was not the one she had described to me an hour earlier. But rather, this particular feline belonged to the man who lives in the house on whose property the ivy flourished.

And as the young lady sat by the lone oak tree, her rear parts in the ivy, and holding “Buddy,” I noticed her mouth was moving. But since a pane of glass separated me from the duo, I wasn’t sure if she was speaking or singing to the tabby-colored cat. (However, I think it was the latter).

Odd, Buddy died just a week after Lucille found a spot in the ivy, held him to her shoulder, and whispered “sweet nothings” in his ear.

I wonder if she ever found her cat.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending