Elliot's Lament

Once in a while, as many as several times a month, little black Elliot will wander to an empty part of the house and begin softly to whine. Just for a minute or two: then he'll stop. If you hear it and call to him -- "Elliot, what's wrong?" -- he'll come to you, seemingly snapped out of it, full of affection.

What makes him do it? We don't know. It could be some minor pain that he feels; it might happen more often after meals. (We haven't really been able to deduce a pattern.) But there is nothing wrong with him, and it doesn't sound like physical pain. It sounds like sadness.

As you might know, we adopted Elliot from a local shelter after seeing his picture in a newspaper ad. We took cranky old Louie with us to see him, in order to know if they would get along. Louie paid absolutely no attention to Elliot; he was focused on walking around new place with new smells.

Elliot looked like hell. They told us that he had been found alone, on the street. His hair was so matted they had to cut most of it off. You could easily feel his ribs. Still, he had a certain nervous amiability, so we took him. How could we not? He's still a tentative sort, sometimes giving love enthusiastically, sometimes edging up to you hesitantly until you pet him. But he's been a part of our family now for a good 6 years.

When I hear his low-volume, high-pitched keening in some dark corner of the house, I can't help but think that he is remembering his long lost mommy, from whom he might have been taken too early, for whom he desperately longed during those cold hungry nights on the street, and for whom his heart still aches.

We love you, Elliot. I hope that's enough.