Roscoe the kitty was Jeremy's and my first "child." He's taken a backseat in the past few years with the arrival of Jack (major understatement - I mean, before Jack, I used to send Kodak albums of Roscoe pictures to my family) but continues to be our faithful companion. When Jeremy goes away on business trips, I'll find Roscoe sitting by the front door, waiting for the "pack" to be united once again. Routinely, when Jack and I arrive home after the workday, Roscoe will meet us at the door as well. (In fact, if he doesn't meet us, I can safely assume he's locked himself somewhere - the bathroom or most recently, the TV cabinet...) And for about seven years straight, I've had 15 pounds of furry cat sleeping between my feet every night without fail.
This morning, I noticed Roscoe sitting by the door. The sweet thing was that it was Jack who wasn't home (Maria, the super-nanny, has picked him up early because she is awesome and extremely accommodating of Jeremy's and my crazy schedules) and here my feline son was missing his buddy. Has Roscoe finally forgiven us for the mornings of forgetting to feed him (once, I picked up his water bowl, which was bone-dry)? For his brother "holding" him by squeezing his fluffy middle? For the early days, when even my nocturnal animal would slink away from the midnight cries of my newborn? Roscoe's finally missing his Jack!
Um, now who's going to break the news to Roscoe that there's another one on the way???