When he didn’t come for the evening meal that Sunday in August we weren’t too very worried.

Well, just a little bit. The other three members of our feline family showed up.

You see, our garage is their meal time venue, as well as their sanctuary, for we have sleeping accommodations for them in it, a heat lamp for the cold nights, and, of course, a pet door just for their use. On occasion other critters come through that aperture. Think raccoon or opossum.

No Buck at breakfast Monday. Visually checking the fields adjacent to our yard, and the edge of the wooded area across the road in front offered no clues.

We asked each other several times during the day Monday “Have you seen Buck?” We would respond with something like “No, but he’ll show up. You know how they can be.” But we were worried.

He didn’t come for supper, nor for breakfast the following morning.

Let me pause here, and tell you about Buck. We got him when he was about two months old. He was long-haired and his markings were butterscotch and white. He grew into an absolutely beautiful boy. He was our talking cat. Oh, yes. Buck talked to you.

Buck was the oldest of our cats. Our “head-cat.” It was 14 years ago that he joined our family, having been born on a farm. He was named Buck, after Cathy Buck, from whom we adopted him.

So. Tuesday afternoon we went into the fields behind our house. The crop this year is peanuts. We split up and walked the rows, and along the perimeter near the wooded side.

Then, just barely a few yards from the electric fence that runs along the back (which is part of the containment that separates our yard from the fields on the sides and back, and keeps Gladys and Babe in), we found Buck.

Our beautiful boy. Stretched out, on his side, between two rows of peanuts, no really discernible marks on him.

Well. Of course the tears flowed. The reality was so, so devastating to us.

After preparing a place in our back yard — not so very far from the peanut field — where numerous of our previous dogs and cats now repose at one with the earth, we buried our beloved Buck.

We held hands, Sally prayed — tried to, as neither of us could manage much vocal control — and said goodbye to our precious boy.

When we attain the next dimension — and if it is like we hope it will be — among the many joys we anticipate is a reunion with all the dogs and cats that were a part of our life’s journey.

And when Buck sees us, we’re sure he will start talking.

Until then …