The cats (Olive, left; Ophelia, right; and Pete, not pictured) rode out to Gilbertsville on Sunday morning. They yowled, in stereo, the entire time. Maybe you could hear them. Pete was by far the loudest, and, alas, since we were short a cat crate, he was also the one most likely to let loose straight into your ear from his perch on the back of the benchseat.
Since setting them free inside, it's been nothing but smooth sailing. Olive, the shiest, hasn't been hiding under things. Nor wetting on things-- another disturbing possibility. She even came to visit me in the kitchen last night. Pete and Ophelia, perennial terrorists in our last house, have been mostly ignoring each other here. In the evening, Pete goes roaming around the big empty rooms, smiling his cat-smile at me and purring. I like to imagine he's thinking, "Good choice, mom! I approve." But it's probably just the catnip.
There are two windowsills in the great room, and so many times I've walked in to see Pete curled on one and Ophelia on the other, placidly watching the birds and the lawn and perhaps contemplating the possibility that they will someday be set free with those birds, and that lawn. Someday they will.
Everything good is still ahead, for them and for us.