A few years later Later.
The photo was pinned to a corkboard in Dr. Catwell's office.
It showed a man standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. He looked tired, and his hair was greying, but he was smiling.
Perched on his shoulder, secured with a piece of twine, was a battered, one-eared stuffed cat wearing a tiny, handmade astronaut helmet.
There was a postcard attached.
Dr. Catwell,
Paris is nice. No scratching posts. The food is better than the kibble.
We went to the top of the tower. I held him up so he could see the lights. I told him they were stars.
I still hear the static sometimes. Especially when it rains. But then I touch the rock in my pocket, and I remember.
I remember that I am Noah. I remember that I loved her. And I remember that the pain is just the price of the love.
We're going to Japan next. She always wanted to see the cherry blossoms. I hear they look like pink snow.
Give Catherine my best. Tell her I'm sleeping just fine.
- Noah & Mr. Whiskers.
Dr. Catwell smiled, taking off his glasses. He opened his drawer. Inside, tucked in the back, was a cigar. He didn't smoke it—it was bad for his heart—but he liked the smell.
"Good boy, Noah," the doctor whispered. "Good boy."
He closed the drawer, picked up his pen, and turned to the next file.
Patient 43. Rex Miller. Delusion: Canine dysmorphia.
"Alright, Rex," Dr. Catwell said to the empty room. "Let's play fetch."
THE END.