Jon called last night

he was upset. I thought that maybe he had gotten evicted or something. I don't know where he's getting money or how he's paying rent. He says he doesn't have a job and that he can't get unemployment again until April. His being evicted was a logical assumption on my part.

Instead, he told me that Columbus had been hit by a car. Columbus, the last of my three cats I had entrusted to him when I moved from Massachusetts, was dead. Jon was beside himself with gulit and remorse.

I asked him where Columbus was. Jon said he was in a plastic bag stashed in an old doghouse. I told him to go get Columbus, now, before other animals did and dragged him off to God knows where.

Jon asked what he was supposed to do once he did that. I told him to take him to the vet, or to the all-night animal hospital in North Andover, so they can dispose of Columbus'
remain properly.

Jon called me later from the all night animal hospital. The vet there said the probable cause of death was being hit by a car, and that more than likely, he died instantly.

Columbus would have been seven years old in March. I'd had him since he was born under my dresser in Norfolk in 1999.

I will never ever entrust another living being to Jon's care. He mistreated his own children, and forced an indoor cat to fend for himself out in the elements, and take chances with the traffic. His cat was pampered and spoiled, and remained an indoor cat. It wasn't hard to see which one he preferred.

So all of my cats are gone. Snow Flurry was lost; Sadie was given away without my being told ahead of time; and now, Columbus is gone as well. When I move to wherever it is I finally find a radio job, I will get another cat. Maybe another Maine Coon like Columbus, who knows.

Rest in peace, ole buddy.


And that's all from where I sit.

--MorelaterZ--