Myst is the cat who goes outside to roam and stays out so long, she makes us worry if she’s ever coming home.
You know, like Bruwyn.
Myst came home. Bruwyn didn’t.
Myst climbs on me when I go to bed, and she’ll paw my face with claws out and she’ll bite my nose.
And I tell her I wish that it had been Bruwyn who had come home.
But when she gets sick with her respiratory infections and goes under the bed, and she won’t eat or drink.
I regret everything I’ve ever said bad about her, and pray.