Remembering Rusty I have this problem. I adopt stray cats. Not all of them. But some. Rusty was a stray I adopted a few years ago. He was an exceptionally affectionate orange cat who slept under the cherry tree in my back yard. Over the course of a summer, we got to know each other and he began to run up against me and eventually let me pet him and pick him up. After that, we were hooked. Before letting him in the house permanently, I took him to the vet to have him neutered and vaccinated. My friend, the Grand Poobah, graciously accepted to help me give Rusty his first and much-needed flea bath. Rusty settled in. He had a bit of a wheeze when he breathed, and snored when asleep. One of his ears had a tear in it. He had feline immune deficiency (kitty AIDs). But he was a snugglebunny. This was the period when I was freelancing, and I would joke with my clients that I would send my large, orange street-wise cat to their office if they didn't pay up. His picture circulated among my clientele. One day, Rusty went out to play and never came back. I searched for days, calling and calling him. I never saw him again. I was reminded of him today as I was working from home. When working on the computer in my office, my back faces the window. On the windowsill is a small transparency of Rusty. It's a picture of him peering through the mottled glass of the main door downstairs, waiting for me to come home. I noticed the transparency when I stretched a bit and looked out the window to see whether the rain had abated. It hadn't. I leave the transparency there, hoping that maybe Rusty will see it and be reminded that he had a little bed here. He's the only creature whose snore I really miss.