Little did I realize this odd behavior was Andy looking for his brother. It started the day Dougy died, though I didn’t know Dougy was gone yet. Andy’d found the body hours before I did. When I found it, Andy was there. He sniffed Dougy, just like he would in life. Andy still does this recliner arm vigil, and it makes me sad for him and for me.
He’s not coming from the guest bedroom, either. Or off the stacked carriers. Or off the recliner. Andy is silent, patient, hopeful. “He won’t come back, Andy,” I tell him, more for my benefit than his of course.
Some activities are normal…
…others are alarming. Andy’s shallow deep sleep breathing barely moved his chest. Holding my breath…
…I touched him to make sure he was alive. It’s been like that.
I intended to put Dougy’s savaged ottoman out of sight in the guest bedroom. “Not yet,” I told myself, “not yet.”
I appreciate all the condolences from followers of the kitty boys. They were thoughtful, welcome, helpful, and a reminder that the world still holds a lot of compassionate, empathetic, nice people. Some made me cry, but all comforted me. I hope I returned to each and everyone of you who took time to send me their message of condolence and let you know your message was seen, read, and it helped.
Dougy and Andy were a team when it came to hunting.