The half-blind, half-deaf elderly Israeli gentleman who cleans (more or less) the hallway and stairwell of our building came up to me yesterday with the following story:  apparently, he had found a "beautiful cat that clearly had someone taking care of him," and it was dead.  He threw it away in the garbage.

This man proceeded to explain that he couldn't remember what my cat looked like, and that he hoped that it was not my Harry that he had tossed in the bin.  (This cleaner was injured, both physically and mentally, in the Yom Kippur War, and several buildings in the area give him work out of kindness.)

Of course, Harry goes outside all day and I don't see him until late in the evening, so I spent the entire time  thinking he was gone from this plane of existence.  Thankfully, Harry came home around nine pm, looking no worse for wear, and it means that some other cat owner on our block will be receiving sad news.

Even with all the current "sibling rivalry" between Raphaela and Harry, I could not imagine how she or I would handle that.