Warning: sentimental cat post. Feel free to ignore.

I didn't used to have this problem, because my kitty would read my books for me.

I had to leave my Miez behind when I moved to Australia. Locking her away in quarantine for six months would not have been fair to her or me.

Of course, I never would have chosen to get a cat in Germany or Denmark, much as I longed for one. I knew I wasn't likely to be there forever. Miez was the result of spur-of-the-moment bad judgment of a flatmate of mine, who thought she wanted a cute little pet and then wasn't all that interested after the novelty wore off. The following year, said flatmate up and went to Berlin, leaving the cat behind. But by then I had been Miez's human for a long time anyway.

I was the one who taught her about the big, wide world. Her formative kitten-years had been spent as that truly German phenomon: the "house cat". She had never been allowed outside until she came to live with me. So I sat in the garden with Miez on my lap every day for nearly two weeks, until she finally stopped trembling and burying her head in my skirt for long enough to go exploring. (Make the big blue ceiling go away!) The first few days after that she would slowly creep a few metres from me, then flatten herself to the ground and yowl until I went to pick her up. She eventually got more confident, but it was a long time before she stopped ducking whenever a bird flew overhead.

Finally, though, Miez discovered what the outdoors was really for and started to bring home mice and birds. We had words about that. Especially after I came back after a two week trip away (a neighbour had been feeding her) to find a rotting, maggot-ridden pigeon in my bed.

But, you know, even thinking of that incident I feel nostalgic. I know she went to a good home. I knew the people -- I'd checked out the house and the area. But still I miss her. Every day. And when I came across this photo again today, I had myself a little sniffle.

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