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i've been called a bad pet owner more than once, and probably with some justification.

and god knows i've been lax with maggie--probably shoulda put a collar and tags on her at the very least, but i could never bring myself to do it.

see, she was wild from the day she was born, and as soon as she didn't need me to bottle-feed her anymore, she made it clear she wanted out to roam the canyon.

and once she was big enough, i obliged her--opened the doors wide, let her come and go as she pleased, tossed a handful of cat chow in her bowl twice a day along with a little water and that was pretty much it--i used to joke that she was the bic disposable lighter of pets.

i never worried much that a car or coyote would get her; she was the nervous, hypervigilant type and always on guard when she was outdoors--far more predator than prey, i told myself [and god knows she'd left me enough dismembered birds and field mice over the years to prove it].

sometimes she took off for two-three days at a time, but she always came back, chuffing a little "hello" as i scooped her into my arms and asked her where the fuck she'd been.

this time it's been thirteen days, and i've pretty much accepted that she's not coming back.

i tell myself she chose freedom over the safety of litter-box domesticity a long time ago, and that given the choice she'd do it again.

i tell myself that honoring that choice was the best thing i could've done for her--god knows she had a great run as queen of her domain.

i tell myself that every day she lived beyond the morning i rescued her right after her birth nine years ago was borrowed time anyway, so she was damn lucky to have me around.

i tell myself a lot of things.

godspeed, my sweet girl, wherever you are.