Tomorrow I will probably adopt a cat.

It's been five weeks today since I buried Ingrid. And it's really lonesome around my house. Damn, but I miss Ingrid.

There were two cats who were littermates in a cage at my vet's office when I took Ingrid there the last time (for her ultrasound). A black short-haired male with copper eyes and a gray medium-haired female. I've stayed in touch with the staff there, and since late August the male has been adopted, so I'd imagine that the female is pretty lonely. Kind of puts us in the same boat.

But I want to avoid doing anything unfair, like expecting any other cat to be like Ingrid. And I will have to remember that a young cat is going to be pretty energetic and hard-charging, as opposed to how mellow Ingrid had become over the years. For instance, Ingrid learned about 15 years ago that I sleep really late on the weekend, and it's ill-advised to try and rouse me on a Saturday or a Sunday before I really want to get up. She used to go thundering across my bed, then act like "Oh--I didn't disturb you, did I?"

I just hope I'm not doing this too soon.

A friend of mine had a cat who got hit by a car, and within just a few days she adopted some kittens. Kate said that on the way home, she cried for her dead cat (who absolutely refused to be an indoor animal), but she knew the kittens would be great friends to one another and to her. They have been.

Ingrid was jet-black with lovely green eyes. She had just about the silkiest, most shiny coat of any black cat I have ever known.

The cat I'm probably going to adopt is female, like Ingrid, but she looks nothing like her. That's a good thing. If this goes okay, before long I might even get another for this cat to play with. The dynamic of two cats to keep each other company when I'm gone would be very different from a solo cat, which might also help me not compare her/them to Ingrid.

Cats' personalities are all very different. Just as different as one person can be from another. And I have been acquainted with lots of cats and dogs who were really much better people than most--well, that might be a little harsh; how about if we just say *many*?--of the humans I have known. [But that's a whole 'nother story--right?]

So if this kitty comes to live with me, I will need to get to know her and respect her and treat her right and let her be her own cat. . .just the same way that once upon a time, so long ago, I did that when Ingrid came into my life.

I cannot understand why the very thought of that would create such a huge lump in my throat and make my eyes burn. It's not like I have let Ingrid down or done anything disloyal to her. She always liked it better when I was happy than when I was sad. And I could tell very, very clearly that Ingrid was worried that she didn't want to leave me alone, and that she felt as if she was letting me down to be sick, and she wondered who would take care of me.

I'd like to tell one more story about Ingrid: From the time that she was a tiny kitten, her occasional baths in the tub (yup--in real water!) were deeply confusing for her. Just plain befuddling. This only happened about six times during her whole life, but she would stand up on her hind legs with her front legs resting on the side of the tub to watch the water flowing into the tub, and it was fascinating to her, and then she'd let me pick her up and put her in there, and she never flipped out or tried to fight me, and it was funny because I talked to her and told her what we were doing the whole time as I poured water over her and lathered up the flea shampoo, and she had trouble deciding what in the world was happening because she knew she wasn't supposed to like water, but obviously if she was standing in the water she was getting wet, and cats aren't into that stuff, but the hot water felt really good and she was getting lots of attention with body rubs and the whole bit, and it was almost more than she could take. A profound mystery.

I guess she trusted me that well. Oral meds? No, no, NO! <*NO!*> But a bath? She would tolerate it. She did okay. Last time we did that when it was time to rinse, I even ran the spigot and stuck Ingrid's little head under there a second. All she did was close her eyes and duck her head, then shake her head like a propeller and look at me like "Man! What the *hell* was that?"

Okay, by the time I took her out and rubbed her down with the towels, she had had about enough, and she woud growl to let me know that I was pushing my luck, but it was nothing personal. She never bit me then or put out her claws; she just had to offer her opinion on the whole subject, like "All right, now listen here, you: I'm losing my patience, and I think that bath night is just about over."