Many of you are bigger fans of my cat than you are of my writing, and that’s understandable and right and good. You’ve loved him from afar via my incessant cat pics, and you’ve understood how much he means to me—my only pet, my muse, and usually the only living thing occupying my sorry bachelor pad.
As many of you know from social media, Watson is missing. I moved him to my grandparents’ house during a moving transition, and before he could get used to the place, he escaped. I’ve tried every trick in the book to recover him, so PLEASE do not bombard me with cat-finding techniques. Believe me, I’ve done them all. I’ve been camping out in my grandparents’ back alley for 20 days, walking the streets every night, and even got a team together to leave flyers on every single doorstep in the neighborhood. Nothing.
I’ve decided it’s time to go home. There’s nothing more I can do out here, and I have to stop torturing myself. Most likely Watson has been taken in by some kind family or he’s enjoying a wild new life among the strays. I still hold out hope that he’ll come wandering back someday—I know it happens all the time, so please spare me the flood of anecdotes—or someone will recognize him from the poster and give me a call. If it happens, I’ll be overjoyed. But for now, all I can do is wish him well and say goodbye.
I know this has nothing to do with books, and some of you probably don’t care, but I figured those of you who do care deserved some closure. And because I need people to stop asking me if I’ve found Watson yet. Believe me, oh believe me, if I find him you will hear about it. Until then, with tears…on with life.
