It was near midnight. I was alone in the corner of the living room. Dad was fast asleep in bed.
Earphones and laptop, I was deep into Masterpiece Theatre’s Wuthering Heights and the only light in the house was Heathcliff on the screen.
As a child, black nights at the farm were scary but nowadays I take enjoyment in finding my way blindly, feeling with my hands and hoping nobody left anything out to trip over.
Slowly in my periphery, I noticed movement around me. Shiatsus chasing Samson the cat, I thought. Mildly irritated, I returned to Kathy.
Suddenly, directly to my left, a heart-breaking screech of fear and pain called out. Jumping up, my computer dropped to the ground as I screamed and scrambled in the pitch night running for the light, not knowing what Samson had brought to kill beside me.
Dad, waking to my commotion, jumped out of bed and came to save the day in a white tank top and blue briefs.
Running towards the cat, he swooped down and swiftly scooped up a baby robin at the end of its short life. Together, we were sad.
Turning off the lights, feeling my way to my bedroom, I thought three things:
1) Samson isn’t the cat I thought he was.
2) What other terrible things are happening around me that I’m in the dark about?
3) I may be taking care of my father but he’s still taking care of me too.