The next sign is in frisco itself where after a night of perfect sleep in an old skid row hotel room I go to see Monsanto at his City Lights bookstore and he’s smiling and glad to see me, says “We were coming out to see you next weekend you should have waited,” but there’s something else in his expression—When we’re alone he says “Your mother wrote and said your cat is dead.”
Ordinarily the death of a cat means little to most men, a lot to fewer men, but to me, and that cat, it was exactly and no lie and sincerely like the death of my little brother—I loved Tyke with all my heart, he was my baby who as a kitten just slept in the palm of my hand with his little head hanging down, or just purring, for hours, just as long as I held him that way, walking or sitting—He was like a floppy fur wrap around my wrist, I just twist him around my wrist or drape him and he just purred and purred and even when he got big I still held him that way, I could even hold this big cat in both hands with my arms outstretched right over my head and he’d just purr, he had complete confidence in me—And when I’d left New York to come to my retreat in the woods I’d carefully kissed him and instructed him to wait for me, “Attends pour mué kitigingoo”—But my mother said in the letter he had died the night after i left!—But maybe you’ll understand me by seeing for yourself by reading the letter:-
“Sunday July 20, 1960, Dear Son, I’m afraid you wont like my letter because I only have sad news for you right now. I really dont know how to tell you this but Brace
