Ophelia, my twenty pound cat, has run away from home. She hasn't gone far, just to the garage, but in consideration of the fact that she was Queen Bee around this place, I'm baffled. What mystical wonderlust could drive a spoiled, pampered, beloved pet to abandon her happy home in favor of the dirty, spider infested garage? When we call her, she runs. So we've been letting her have her little adventure. She's a good ole girl (and fixed), so what harm could she cause? I miss her though, I miss brushing her long hair, and the comfortable, warm lump she was when she deigned to sit in my lap.
Ophelia was half of a pair of twins we adopted four years ago. She and her sister were born in a cage in a cat shelter, and stayed there until they were 18 months old. That Christmas they were selected to be on display in the mall to help the shelter raise money for their new facility. Pap and I always go and pet things when we see those displays. I hate seeing dogs and cats in cages. We fell in love with them on the spot and completed the necessary cooling off period and the two hour drive to pick them up without complaint. Princess and I picked them up from the shelter and brought them home to this sprawling, toy filled house. Olivia, Ophelia's sister, died after a few months of a type of pneumonia cats get from shelters. The last four months of her life were heaven to Olivia. Ophelia seemed content to be the Queen for three more years until this spring, when she succeeded in escaping to explore the great outdoors. Maybe she'll come back in when it gets cold.