Mom found Ditto's little body today, behind the compost heap.

Makes me sad, but at least we can bury his body.

I'll probably cry tomorrow when we do, and my mom will put her skinny, cold arms around me, and it'll be weird.

I miss Ditto. I've missed Ditto the past three years that I haven't been living with my parents.

It was time for him, though. I hope he wasn't in pain (though he probably was).

And it gives me some satisfaction to know he died on our property. I would hate it for him to die somewhere else.

I knew he'd die there, too, because he never left the property unless forced (to the vet or something). Not in the sixteen years I've known him.

He came across the street at me when I found him, across Silica in the pouring rain, and from then on I don't think he ever willingly left the yard (beyond the boulevard, that is, and I only ever saw him there once or twice).

I still remember. My brothers had ran inside, and my dad was a few steps ahead of me, and I was just starting up the stairs of the sidewalk. It was raining, but not hard, but it was pretty wet, and I heard something, and I looked over my shoulder.

Ditto was there, though he wasn't Ditto yet, walking through the rain, across the road at the unmarked crosswalk.

I think he was meowing, but I'm not sure. I could tell he needed me, because he was looking straight at me.

I love cats. I loved cats then. We already had a cat, Orlando, who was surly and tough and also a stray.

I wanted one I could *pet* and play with. Orlando was kind of like an old uncle with claws.

I met Ditto halfway and picked him up and he was wet all over. He had very long fur, and it was all weird and hanging down at the ends, the way really fluffy things do when they get damp.

A car went by when I was approaching the stairs to the porch, so when I got inside I tried to play on my mom's sympathy by telling her he almost got hit by a car.

I don't think she believed me, in retrospect, but she let Ditto stay the night and said we'd put up posters in the morning.

We did. I even made little orange cutouts of a cat out of construction paper to give people a better idea (I was six, gimme a break).

When no one called to claim him, Ditto got his name (after our other cat, Orlando, who he looked like).

All of us wanted him to sleep with us, but my mother said we had to take turns. Ditto would sleep with each of us on rotation.

I used to lay awake at night and wait for which ever brother had him to fall asleep, and then I would sneak into their room (they shared a room), avoid all the squeaky floorboards, and pluck the purring kitty from their blankets.

Ditto was MINE.

And he was.

He slept with me every night, steadily, until I was sixteen or seventeen.

We had a routine on weekends, even.

I would stay up late, watching tv laying on the couch, and Ditto would hop up and stretch out along my body with his head on my shoulder.

He'd fall asleep there, and I'd watch tv, and then when I was ready to go to bed, I'd turn off the tv, pick him up gently, and tuck him under my arm (he'd keep his hind legs on my hip).

I'd carry him upstairs and put him on the washing machine. I'd brush my teeth, and he'd lick himself.

When I was done I'd pick him off the washer, and take him to my bedroom, and put him on my pillow. He'd sit there and wait until I got undressed, and climb into bed.

I'd lift the blankets, and he'd walk under, turn around, and lay down with his head on my pillow, front legs towards me.

I'd tuck my hand between his paws and we'd sleep like that, every night.

He couldn't stand sleeping with me if my face was turned away from him. If I moved in my sleep, he'd get up and move to the other side of my pillow.

He got very jealous, though, when I started dating Mike and became sexually active.

He wouldn't sleep with me anymore, and would pee on my things if I tried to get him to, or meow as loud as he could until I let him out of my bedroom.

It was weird.

When he dissapeared last week I called for him in the yard, but he didn't answer. He must have already been dead, because he always answered me.

He hardly ever meowed, he'd just open his mouth and blink his eyes, but he had this particular 'Where are you?' meow that he'd use. It was very loud, and very insistant.

At night, sometimes, when I was still up and he didn't know where I was, he'd meow and meow, and I'd return his call until he caught sight of me. Then he'd stop meowing and come to me, and just purr and purr and blink his eyes in that slow contented way.

I miss Ditto. I already cried for him once. I'm glad we found his body, but I was pretty content to believe he'd ascended to the great canteloupe in the sky (canteloupe was his favorite; he used to go on daring excursions to pull it off the counter the moment my mother's back was turned).

Anyway, Loren's calling for me to go to bed.

Then I can put my hand somewhere else.

.

Rosie.

Before&After