YESTERDAY I was at the Animal Shelter looking for Manx. So many sad-faced cats. They only keep them seven days. I wanted to take all of them home. There was a Manx look alike and my heart jumped when I saw her - but it wasn't Manx. There was a beautiful long-haired calico in "Quarantine." They said she bit somebody. She had streaks under her eyes where she'd cried and the dirt washed out onto her fur. There was a handsome, bright black cat, probably a young boy, who looked out so positively thru his cage. Others were resigned. They hardly bothered to move when I walked by, curving their backs like a shell.
Yes, my darling Manx ran out of the house, through the crack in the opened door, bounding like a rabbit in joy across the street. I've not seen her, not heard her call since. Though there have been several times, at one in the morning, in the afternoon, just before dusk, when I hear the tink of her bell and rush to the front door or the back door expecting her there.
This my third animal companion that I've lost in less than three months.
I have hope that Manx will return.