And hope does not disappoint. At least, not usually.

If you've followed this blog for any length of time, you've no doubt heard about Max.

Max was a large, orange tabby who steadily crept his way into our hearts about nine years ago. He came to us as the illegal squatter we were unable to let into our rental home. Eventually he won us over to the point that he had his own special entrance and was allowed to sleep in places of honor, like our bed and Teacher Husband's sacred recliner.

The things Max did were the stuff of legend: raised a kitten by himself, locked and unlocked car doors at will and gave kisses on command. Max, quite simply put, was a cat among cats.

One summer night, almost three years ago, he went out into the garden, like he always did, and just disappeared. We drove to shelters, put up posters and pounded the streets. No Max. As weeks stretched into months, we came to terms with our suspicions that he was most likely taken by one of the coyotes that roam the greenspace across the road. Sadly, too many cats in our neighborhood have met with that end. I guess we just always thought Max would beat the odds.

So, if that is true, if we really believe Max has gone to--for lack of evidence--a better place: why do I keep looking for him everywhere I go?

I have called Teacher Husband with at least three false alarms of a Max Siting. The latest one was yesterday morning.

"Paul! Write this down! 9234 C Street! I saw him! He was in the window--I think he was trying to talk to me! He kept tapping his paw against the glass! Paul, you have to get over there fast. I know it's him this time."

But of course it wasn't. Thank God I have a husband who is patient enough to follow up on my flights of fancy. It was a cat that looked so-o-o much like him, but it wasn't Max. Upon closer examination, Paul and Bosco saw that this cat's fur was too light colored.

It's always like that. Fur too light, eyes too wide apart, wrong markings on his sides, too big, too small. Never just Max.

Deep inside I know it's probably never going to be Max. So, why do I keep looking? Because people and animals come and go, but hope seems to live on. If there is just the sliver of a chance, don't we always need to keep looking? --For cats and for everything else in our lives that we have lost? Hope has a life of its own, separate from what we know is "real." Separate from what we can "see." I think God has given us Hope as a gift. That when all else says no, we still have a quiet, pounding will to press on.