This afternoon, a rainy one, as I lay silently in the bathtub, Joe came to look for me, as he usually did when he woke up from a nap and he didn’t know where I was.

He stopped in front of the open bathroom door and, having located me, he sat, curling his striped tail around him. He focused his pale green eyes on me and batted them twice, in salute; then he lowered his gaze and washed his paws, briefly, just a touch-up.

Then, intrigued by the sound of the water trickling, he walked toward me, to the tub. Raising himself on his hind legs, he put his front paws on the edge of the tub and for a long moment stood looking curiously onto the flowing water. With my finger I petted his creamy paw and smiled at him. “Hi Joe,” I said. He batted, and smiled.

Satisfied, or bored, he lowered himself down, turned, and walked out, leaving a feeling—an ache—of orange in my eyes.

Or so I saw.

Happy birthday, Joe, wherever you might be. You are missed, still and always.