Misadventures of Miss and Mouse

The last time I saw Soot was in May, 1997, when I was working in the garden and she came to roll in the freshly-turned earth near my feet and to have her belly rubbed (a ritual she had shared with Jim and me for all of the ten years she had lived with us). I knelt and kissed the soft expanse of coal-black fur, and as I did, I was stricken with an unexplained dread.

A few days later Soot disappeared permanently.

I could hardly contain my grief at the loss of my precious friend, and, in addition, we were left with another

cat and the potential for a repeat situation. So, without much enthusiasm—I regretted at that moment having adopted Mouse, I visited the city animal shelter to look for a kitten to befriend her.

Miss was a beautiful, healthy three-month-old calico who had been delivered by her family to the shelter only a day or two before I discovered her there.

But by now Mouse was enjoying being the only cat and she treated Miss exactly as Soot had treated her, hissing and slapping and refusing to