I saw Hank today. We were returning from a large and lazy breakfast at the Hometown Diner. It was a large
tab as I devoured my favorite omelette with peppers and cheese. The road we were taking home brought us
beyond old Angus pastures that I used to run beside when living in Mertztown. As we neared a favorite
pasture, we saw a grey tiger tabby run in front of the car and dive into dried overgrown soy. It was certainly
our late Hank. Shocked, Ryan and I took turns to call him back, but he dashed away... likely made wild by the
months of being in the fields. I turned to Ryan, back in the car, and said "how the hell did he make it all the
way over here?!" I had called a farmer whose mennonite children took care of local cats to confirm that Hank
would be more welcomed there than with our unfriendly neighbors (one of whom wanted to trap him). Ryan
later revealed that he'd dropped Hank not where I'd instructed him to but to this random soy pasture... away
from the region of barns and other loved cats. All this time I'd passed that supposed drop-off point lamenting
Hank's departure to Ryan while Ryan held his tongue. I'd been lied to.
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