The big white cat became the first house cat and he and Ruski would sleep together on the same couch in brotherly acceptance. One day the big white cat came back with an ugly wound, evidently from a dog. The teeth had torn through his flesh on both sides of the tailbone as he was running and he managed to shake free or climb a tree. I blame myself now for not taking him to a vet. I merely rubbed on some penicillin ointment and he seemed to be on the road to recovery. Then one day he disappeared and was never seen again.
A car? A dog? A coyote? Perhaps another home?
"I think he's dead, Bill," James said.
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