I found what remained of Mr. Boots in a patch of clover under an old elm tree. Poor Mr. Boots, he had almost made it. I kneeled, smoothed his black fur and marveled one last time at the perfectly white feet. “Socks,” I had suggested when he had first turned up at Mrs. Hanson’s door. “No, that’s too wussie,” she’d said. “Boots, that’s his name. Mr. Boots” I gently removed the tattered collar. Below the collar hung the ultimate expression of Mrs. Hanson’s affection; a tiny silver bell. Ironically, it was probably the bell that had led to his tragic end. Poor Mr. Boots. “No sign of him at the park,” I told her later. “I’ll bet Mr. Boots is just off visiting one of his girlfriends. You know how he is; he’ll be back when he gets hungry.” “You’re probably right,” she said. “He’s a scamp, that one.” We lost Mrs. Hanson during my sophomore year at college, still waiting for Mr. Boots to return and imagining all the adventures he must be having. I closed the old cigar box and put it under my arm. “We’re done here,” I said to no one in particular. - End ► Empathy Katherine Chen, AZCOM 2020 Soft pastel THRIVE 2018 9
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