The saga of Thomas Kitty, our beloved black and white changeling, whose body was discovered far from home, continues.

I have written about our journey with Thomas: from the first chilled evening in November when he mounted the front steps (and, as a dutiful Tom, sprayed the railing) and looked cautiously through the storm door at Paul, to the months that passed resulting in more and more sightings until I could sit on the grass and he would approach me, flinging himself on the ground a foot or so away and wriggle closer and closer, begging for a chin scratch.

We were forging a devoted bond. So much so that, bizarrely, he knew exactly where I was sleeping at night.

To explain: when Paul’s snoring begins to rattle the rafters, I generally grab my pillow and descend the stairs to sleep below in the guest bedroom. And like clockwork, around midnight, I would be roused from my sleep by plaintive mewing and, without turning on the light, I would peer out the window and there would be Thomas, on the ground below, staring up at me.

How on earth did he know I was there?

When Thomas died, I grieved heavily and less than a week after his passing, I was wakened by one of our cats spitting at a glossy black cat on the other side of the French doors. When this episode occurred I half-joked to Paul that, “Thomas has sent one of his friends to check on me and see if I’m alright.” This was met with a chuckle and the sort of expression that says, ‘if that makes her happy to believe such nonsense, I’m not going to say anything.’