“Simon!” I screeched, and he ran around the corner, brandishing a bat.
“Is someone in the house?” he asked, whirling about.
I burst through the patio doors with Simon right behind me, hope now blooming fully and out of control.
There, on the grass right below the dining room window, was Clive. Licking his paws like it was no big thing.
“No way,” Simon breathed behind me as I sank to the ground and opened my arms.
Clive washed his ears like he had all the time in the world, then slow-trotted over to me with the biggest kitty grin I’ve ever seen. He tried to play it cool, but I could hear his rusty purr from four feet away. Tears ran unabashedly down my cheeks as I sobbed on the ground, holding my cat. Who purred and purred and purred. He was skinny, he was muddy, he was cold, and he was back.
Simon crouched next to me, running his hand down Clive’s back as I held him tightly. “There’s a good boy,” he said over and over again as he stroked him and scratched between his ears. When Simon’s eyes met mine, they were shining brightly.
I stood finally, clutching my Clive. I cooed and coddled him, telling him that he could never do that again or I’d kill him, and he could eat steak all day, every day. Simon just smiled as Clive head butted him, eager for more boy-on-boy lovin’.
As I turned to take him into the house, he suddenly dug in with his hind legs and jumped from my arms, running back into the bushes he’d disappeared into weeks ago.
“No! Clive, no!” I yelled.