Waiting for Peter

My mood is as gloomy as a snow sky in late March and I so wish I could just shake it off but I doubt that's possible. I desperately need Spring to get here. I need sun and warmth on my face. I need the optimism that comes with the turning of this particular season. I need to smell things greening and get wet dirt underneath my fingernails. I need my Peter back.

Our kitties Peter and Lillie were fostered in a farm about half a mile down the road from where we now live. I remember noticing our house back then, thinking it was the sweetest, most idyllic farmhouse I'd ever seen. I wondered what it would be like to live there and now I do.

The kittens were eight weeks old when I brought them home. Barely weened, full of curiosity and bad manners, they immediately took over the house and declared Franklin to be their adoptive mom even though he was male.

Franklin took on the role with gusto, letting them nurse on his fur and sleep on his belly. He snuggled them as long as they liked and taught them to be sweet. Eventually they learned better table manners.



Like so many kitties, Peter masked any hint of pain or illness. We had no idea he was dying, only that he didn't seem his usual self and that one day he just didn't seem interested in eating. 

He was such a gentle, kind and considerate soul. I miss our snuggily bedtime routine with his affectionate head butts that were so enthusiastic they sometimes knocked my glasses off. How he would lay on Ken's pillow and look up at him as though he had no intention of leaving. I miss his soft pink nose and his one rogue black whisker. He purred 'til he took his last breath.

Spring is kitten season. Perhaps Pee will have decided it's time to return to us by then.

We are waiting for you Pee.