Whenever I go out then come back inside is the time for treats. Loaner comes to greet me with meows and trills and we go through the ceremony of getting out the tuna fish.
It is the least I can do for her since we have moved to this new place, an apartment with no lemon tree or grass or flowers. She has adapted, I think, but I worry that she cannot bask in sunshine as she has in the past. The rays hit the balcony in a slant and she has yet to go out on it.
If Bijou were still with me I wouldn’t have moved at all. That little cat lived for the outdoors. I miss him and yearn for his shenanigans, his gallops throughout the house, his squeaks that may never have developed into proper meows. Not that Loaner gives out proper meows, more likely croaks.
The heartstrings vibrate in pain and nothing can be done about it.