The tiny kitten decided he was going to live here.
No matter that we had decided that we had more
than enough pets. No matter that we were still
mourning the recent loss of one of our favorites
after a long battle with cancer.
The tiny kitten had made up his mind. He was staying.
I named him Bubba.
That was Thanksgiving weekend 1994.
He turned out to be a Maine Coon and grew to weigh
more than fifteen pounds. A giant, fuzzy, loving and
loveable, sweet, adorable, constantly purring cat.
This Monday evening I buried him under the rose bushes
beside the others. Too many others.
I've been trying to write something about him all week.
This house is full of death.
Paint, repairs and new furnishings would be no more
than cheap make-up on an ugly woman. Still ugly.
I hate it here.
Now, can someone tell me why I have not cried for Bubba?