Roscoe

The little day-to-day habits are the hard part.

I keep looking out the front window to see if he’s laying on the front porch, ready to come in.

I wake up and expect him to be coming into the bedroom before my feet hit the floor, doing cheek rubs on the dresser and the nightstand while I get dressed, then herding me into the kitchen for my coffee and his breakfast.

I come back from town and unlock the door, habitually looking at my feet to see if he’s greeting me or instinctively glance to my right to see if he’s laying in my desk chair, sleeping in the quiet of my absence.

And now, nine months on, I'm still catching ghost glimpses of him in my peripheral vision. 

Little streaks that aren’t there when I look over to see him.

I never even liked cats...