Coming home...

I lost my shit when I walked in the door.

It was quiet. I was alone. There wasn't anyone hopping down off the bed upstairs to see if it was time to be fed, or to see if he could escape into the great outdoors. There wasn't anyone perched on the back of the sofa in the den glancing at my imperiously as I reached for a beer in the little fridge. There wasn't anyone peering guiltily from a burrowed spot between the piles of clean laundry, or yawning languidly in a sunbeam on the laundry room floor.

I sat down on the steps leading into the den and loudly, with big, wracking sobs, lost my shit. I'd been holding it together loosely all day, when I told folks at work what had happened, when I called my sister, who I knew would understand better than anyone, when I talked to Suzy on the phone. But alone, on the stairs where I would sit every morning to put my shoes on so that he would come rub up against me before I went off to work, I didn't hold anything back. I wept like a baby, with no shame and no regrets.

I didn't really feel any better when I was done, but it was one of those things that had to be done regardless.