It took almost two years to plan and execute my move back to Minneapolis from Tucson, a daunting task that included selling the house I’d lived in for sixteen years and most of its contents, preparing to leave all my professional support network — the doctors, attorney, accountant, Tee, my massage therapist, Darlene who cuts my hair and keeps my secrets, Firuzeh, my acupuncturist. My mah jongg group, my spiritual group, friends, neighbors. A million decisions to make.
And then there was Bill.
Bill is my accidental cat, as all the good ones are, a black and white “tuxedo” short hair who arrived at my door a month or so after the death of Miss Puss (but that’s another accidental cat story). My friend Susan who volunteered at the animal shelter, knew I was suffering kitty deficit, so when Bill arrived in the shelter she sent me a picture. He had oversized ears and big round eyes that gave him a perpetually startled look. I knew I should not be taking in a kitten, but he was adorable. Resistance was futile. I named him Sweet William the Lionhearted, which seemed appropriate at the time. But as happens, the fuzzy five pound kitty became a glossy twelve pound cat now called Bill. Continue reading