He was the neighborhood cat.

He lived with his family in the block behind us, but he always patrolled our neighborhood.

Every morning he would greet my granddaughter at the front door to walk her and her mother to the school bus stop.

Whenever I drove up to the curb in front of my house, he would be there to greet me, would wait patiently for me to get out of the car.

He would then walk with me to the porch as we quietly conversed with each other, me in English and he in Meowrrr.

Since we had no interpreter, we never really understood each other but we were definitely friends in spite of the language barrier.

He had a formal name but it never set well with us so we called him Friend Cat.

Friend Cat.

Our next door neighbor brought us the message.

Friend Cat had suddenly taken ill. His family who lived on the block behind us had to have him put to sleep.

We never met his family.

I still miss him.

Friend Cat!

One Love. . .







He was too young to go outside, still a little puppy. But, he seemed to know there was something greater beyond the glass of that window.

The juxtaposition of Squeakers (his name) and the table with a lyre inset suggests a kind of odd harmony between the animate and inanimate, one endlessly stationary supporting disconnected nature while the other longs to break free as untethered nature beckons to him.