Dumbo and Yoda were litter mates, two identical black and gray tabby cats. I adopted them as kittens, so they spent a lifetime together. I called them my little bookends. Wherever one appeared, the other was always nearby.
For several years, we shared a quiet, suburban house on a sleepy little street. The cats spent a lot of time outside, usually hiding in the bushes in the house across the street. For some obscure cat-reason, they liked to keep an eye on their property without actually being identified with it.
Then a change in circumstance led me to rent an apartment on the far side of town. The apartment complex sprawled across five acres and lined a busy, high-traffic street. My unit was on the far end of the property, however, and faced a vast open field.
Once I moved in, I kept the cats shut inside for weeks. They constantly agitated to be let out, but I feared for their safety and their ability to recognize their new home amid all the other, identical doors. Finally, though, I gave in to their pleadings one day, and let them out in the field. Both disappeared immediately. I agonized. I searched. I called. No reply.
Late that night, I heard meowing. Yoda had returned, managing to find the right door; but there was still no sight of Dumbo. I walked the field and then the complex, calling his name. I posted fliers. A day or two later, I saw evidence of some poor run-over beast in the road right outside our complex, and the fur looked despairingly familiar. I continued to look for Dumbo after that, but my heart did not really expect to find him.
Yoda had no such evidence to go on. He kept seeking his lost brother. He prowled the apartment, moaning and calling. He dug at every closed door, pulled at every cabinet, rushed into every newly opened space, sure his brother was trapped somewhere just beyond his reach. While I mourned for Dumbo, I was being driven to distraction by Yoda’s frantic searching.
One day I could take it no more. I went through the entire apartment, systematically opening every closet, every cabinet, every drawer. I made every possible space accessible to Yoda all at once. Yoda then spent more than an hour systematically searching through the house, ultimately satisfying himself that his brother was truly gone. Then, and only then, I went back around, closing everything up again.
Yoda still mourned his lost brother. He moped around and never again seemed to be as playful or high-spirited as he once was; still, he stopped the constant searching, the digging, the crying out. He seemed to accept the finality of his loss.
But his heart was broken.