I brought her in yesterday at around 10:00am, and spent the rest of the day--until I eventually passed out at around midnight--well...I spent it drunk. I am not proud of this. The only other time I can remember having used alcohol as a coping mechanism was the night of September 11th. Ah, well...there are always good reasons to do what you know you shouldn't.

Vashti has been declining for several weeks. I've avoided writing about her, or about any of the cats, not wanting to talk about her illness until we knew more, but also feeling that it would be dishonest, somehow, to write about the cats as if everybody were fine. But, since I left Vashti at the hospital, I haven't been able to think about much else. "Out of the full heart, the mouth will speak," the saying goes. And so, at last, I speak.

I think one of the hardest things about the illness or loss of a pet is the way in which it isolates us. There are no rituals, no protocols, no acknowledged bedside vigil when you're waiting for news about your cat. If (god forbid god forbid) it was Laurence in the hospital fighting for his life, I could stay at the hospital around the clock, waiting for updates from the doctors. Friends and family members, both of ours, would be there to wait with me. Calling them and telling them what hospital and what was going on would be, in itself, a mercy of temporary productivity. They would hold my hand, bring me food or things I needed from home, or take turns relieving my vigil while I ran my own errands or caught a couple of hours of sleep. I wouldn't even have to think about doing any of these things-they are simply What One Does when someone we love falls ill.

But Laurence and I are waiting here alone. We've told a few friends, of course, who've been wonderfully sympathetic and supportive. Still, the illness of a pet isn't acknowledged by society as the kind of thing that uproots your life, that hollows you out with fear and grief, that leaves you incapable of doing anything else or that others should rally to your side to help you bear. And so we have only each other as we wait and worry, worry and wait. I don't mean to minimize this--having Laurence with me, and knowing that Laurence loves Vashti as much as I do, is the only thing holding me together.

I've received thousands of letters from readers since Homer's Odyssey was published. I've been extraordinarily lucky, in that--out of those thousands--I can literally count on one hand the number of negative letters I've gotten. One of them was from a teenaged girl in Roanoke, who claimed that she would have liked the book except it was so obvious that I had replaced Scarlett and Vashti with Homer, and then eventually replaced Homer with Laurence.

I wrote back to the girl and explained that, when you're a writer telling a story, you have to be selective of what you tell and where you put the emphasis, for the sake of creating a narrative. For example, I told her, because this was a book about Homer, I never wrote about things that had nothing to do with him, like the boyfriend I was madly in love with who was unfaithful and broke my heart; or the boss who made me so miserable that, for a year, I dreaded getting out of bed in the morning; or the time the drycleaner lost my favorite shirt; or the day when, out of the blue, I found the birthday card my grandmother had given me on my second birthday (signed, "Love, Bamma and Bampa"), and how, even though I was in my thirties by then, I slept with it under my pillow for a month because it made me feel closer to her than I had since her death.

None of those things had anything to do with Homer, or his story, or the story of our lives together.
And because the story was Homer's, Scarlett and Vashti ended up being cast in the roles of "supporting characters." This was necessary for story-telling purposes, I explained, but in no way reflected the strength of my feelings for them, or their individual importance in my "real" life.

What would I have said about Vashti, had the story been hers and not Homer's? I probably would have talked more about adopting her, how she was in worse shape than any kitten I had ever seen when my mother first brought me to the tool shed at her school where they were holding Vashti to keep her from running away. She was dirty and smelly and itchy, and painfully skinny, and so tiny! I brought her back to my office, where she climbed onto my shoulder and slept in my hair all day (while I desperately prayed I wouldn't catch her fleas or mites), until I brought her to the vet. When she was in her carrier on the way to the vet's office, she kept stretching her little paws pleadingly out to me through the grates, wanting nothing except to crawl back into my hair for warmth. Already, she was "my" cat.

I might have told how I broke the news to my then-boyfriend, Jorge, that we were about to have a second cat--a second cat he emphatically did not want. I called him at work and cheerfully announced, "There's going to be twice as much love in our house!" He was not amused. But he agreed to let me bring Vashti home just long enough for us to find a "permanent" home for her with another family. We all know how that story ended. Jorge's father--a quiet and non-demonstrative sort--was the first man ever to fall in love with Vashti. "The Arctic Fox," he called her, because of her long plume of white tail, and his eyes glowed whenever he looked at her. But this was later, after Vashti had become an acknowledged beauty.

I named her Vashti not knowing she was going to be beautiful. In fact, I thought she was going to be an ugly little thing--what else could I have thought, given how mangy and filth-encrusted she was back then? It was a full month before I realized her nose was pink and not black. So I thought naming her after a beautiful Persian queen was ironic, and also my own commitment to always see the beauty in her, even if it wasn't there on the surface. But, of course, Vashti showed me. I always think that her growing into such a stunningly beautiful cat was the greatest "ugly duckling" story I ever saw in real life, and Vashti's best revenge against all of us who doubted her.

Vashti was so still and quiet that first day when I found her, and I thought she was going to be an unusually still and serious kitten. Now I know she was just weak and ill, and starved practically to death. The first night she came home, after she'd seen the vet, I kept her in the bathroom overnight. I thought she'd feel safer with her own room, and we also had to monitor a first introduction to Scarlett. When I opened the bathroom door the following morning, a teeny Vashti came bursting through it as if a late-night talk show host had just announced her name. She was bright yellow from the sulfur dip that had treated her skin mites, and she whirled around in circles--her nose low to the ground, her rump and tiny tail high in the air--whirled and whirled around Scarlett and me and everything in the room. She was a tiny ball of yellow, smelly joy. It was the first day in her life when she'd felt well-fed and healthy, and her joy was more than she could contain.