What Smokey thinks

Just now. Smokey the cat.

Sometimes he sits at the door, crying. He's never done that before. It's as if something registers in him that this is not his home, despite the food dish and the box for his goodies. He's got a new upstairs to roam and wonderfully expansive windows from which to see the world outside, including our neighbors, a whole bunch of flood victims, including kids. Still, he wants out.

Just now, he jumped up on the desk and proceeded to let me know that he is vastly more important than any of those odd forms marching across the screen. Even though he's got us--russian blues like him are supposed to be, genetic-wise, wildly loving to those they know well--and he is; even though he's never, ever been an outside cat, nor shown inclinations as if to say he wanted to be; even though were he to take off here, fifteen miles from home, he wouldn't have a clue where he was, never having been here before, even though all of that is true, he wants out.

And there are those stories of cats wandering home when their owners were sure they were long gone--cats who do it all to get home. Perhaps if we'd let him out, he'd show up at the place we all call home, bedraggled maybe, but happy. Maybe he's got this mythical cat compass, you know. 

But the cruel truth is, in fact, that place out on the edge of Alton is no longer home. The basic structure is recognizable, but what's inside, at least on the first floor, would be more than slightly strange. I can't help thinking that were he to show up, the long pilgrimage would have ended in disappointment. The old place isn't what it was before the flood (sounds almost biblical).

The sad news is that he'll just have to make do with this marvelous gift of shelter in the time of storm, the quarters we've been blessed to occupy. He're, he's got food; he's got his box, and he's got us, boring as we may be.

I'm not altogether sure if cats have imaginations, but I've learned not to sell them short; and if they do, I'd like to think that, like him, he'd love to wander back to his favorite places to sleep--upstairs in a shaft of afternoon sun, downstairs on the couch, right below the pillow on the fainting couch.

Yesterday, in a garage full of flood-ravaged half-sunken treasures, I spotted a blue chair beneath a burden of wet scrapbooks and file folders. I wondered if that chair had made it out, then tried to scrub a water line away with my hands when I realized that scum line wasn't left there by flood. It was cat fur.

Honestly, it made my morning.

And, if you're wondering, he's given up ownership of my keyboard and is, right now, I believe, in search of new sleeping quarters.

So, not to worry, all right? He'll be okay. So will we. It won't be the same for any of us, but we'll be okay.