March 1, 2022


I had given up hope that my cat would return.  

Ozzie escaped on a frosty November night.  A week later, I wrote this poem to come to terms with his death.     


That's the way it's meant to be

you and me

and the silver moon

and open doors with scents galore


'til now.

That's the way it's meant to be.

You left me for wooded fields

and starry nights of winter chill

to roam the verdant virgin hills.

Bed you down safe and sound

gather round angels

to bring you home 

and keep you bound in peace.  

No longer by my side, 

you padded off with Nature's guide 

to wooded fields 

and verdant hills,  

for that's the way it's meant to be. 



Near the end of January, a couple found a stray hiding in the bushes by their home.  He was crying.  He was starving.  They took him in, fed him, and then posted his picture on Next Door.  

A neighbor called me to say she had seen a post of a cat that might be Ozzie.    
With a little detective work, my husband and I were able to find the people who rescued the stray.  Down in their basement was skinny cat that could barely meow, that could barely lift his head.  He had two different colored eyes.  They had saved Ozzie.   

Ozzie had travelled to the outskirts of our neighborhood.  He braved snow and predators and single digit temperatures.  He had been missing for two months. 

With the guidance of angels and the kindness of strangers, we have been reunited.

Je suis reconnaissant (I am grateful)

Exhausted, but happy to be home.