It was one of those unclear days. Not the kind of unclear that the whole world seems to be living in lately. Not that. But – you know – the kind when fog descends so thickly that you might as well put on a helmet along with your jacket before you walk out the door because you’re bound to run into something sooner or later; unless, of course, you’re an animal with eyeshine. But I had to go to the grocery store. My cat, Videbimus, Wedee for short, hadn’t stopped yowling since early morning and wouldn’t just eat the can of tuna I’d offered earlier. I should’ve bought a dog. I hear they eat anything including crayons and socks. But Wedee was the leftover kitten from a friend’s cat and needed a home, so in a moment of I can’t believe what I just did, I said I’d take her. She was a cuddly thing and, as cats go, was pretty ordinary other than her propensity to bite me. Oh I know. Cats do that when they’re feeling affectionate. But when Wedee did it, it was more like she was completing a homework assignment. She’d saunter over to me after supper, jump up onto my lap, and start her evening ritual of tiny little bites; sometimes my arms, sometimes my legs or feet, and sometimes even my neck and head. Weird, I know, but by that time of day I’m usually a lump of tiredness, so she got away with it. Sometimes I wondered if she really did think it was her duty and if she would ever think she’d accomplished the homework she had assigned herself each evening. After she was done, she’d snuggle in as though she’d not just sent little cat saliva coursing through my veins. That was six years ago and since then Wedee had pretty much determined my schedule, including, apparently, grocery store runs in dense fog.

I was on my way back when a faint light shone in the distance. I couldn’t tell how near or far. It was just there. I slowed my car, thinking to avoid spending money I didn’t have at the auto shop. It suddenly burst so brightly on my windshield I cringed and slammed on the brakes, waiting for the crunching sound to come. It didn’t.

It was foolish, I know, but I pulled over and walked back to the approximate location of the light, now gone. Nothing. I walked in a zigzagging circle, but neither stumbled upon, heard, nor (of course) saw anything. I slid back into the car, pulled back onto the road as well as I could, and started for home. The fog had lifted slightly, though I passed a car that still crept along as though no one could see an inch in front of them. We could, but the driver must have been one of those extra careful types; the type of person who checks their locks twice and wears Vicks to bed rain or shine. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I hauled Wedee’s dinner into my crackerbox house, scooped out a serving which Wedee sniffed, then devoured like she’d been starved for a week, and I tugged off my jacket. Ugh. Something fell onto my arm. I seemed to have acquired a hitchhiker in the dewy fog. A little lightning bug spread its wings, then began to crawl. I shook it off, and it flew to a corner of the room.

After I’d made myself a huge tuna sandwich, I grabbed the TV remote, switched on the nightly news, and awaited Wedee to saunter over for her evening ritual. The news seemed more ridiculous than usual, and I shut it off and grabbed a book instead. And Wedee jumped up and snuggled. Not one bite. And the lightning bug settled down in the corner with a friendly glow.

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