Ian and I (and my dad) would catch glimpses of Spottswood from time to time for about a month. We'd see him crouched under our neighbor's barn, or nestled in her backyard, or even in our carport.
Unfortunately, Spottswood would flee if we came within 4,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 miles of him. So if he was on Mars and we were on Saturn and we made even the slightest move towards him, he'd streak away as fast as his skinny legs would carry him.
By the end of his escape, when he was making appearances in our car port, I would catch alarming glimpses of his emaciated frame. He was on the verge of starvation and outside in the record-breaking cold, with wind-chills of -3.
After the coldest night of the year, Ian drove Margot to school and returned to find Spottswood sitting in the carport again. He crept up the driveway, swatted a growling Harvey away, and snatched up our prodigal son.
Spottswood, by that point, was likely too weak and too cold to flee. Spottswood was all bones, a gaunt little skeleton.
Once in the house, he ate furiously. He ate and ate and ate. All his food ran through him for two days, but he eventually leveled out. From the moment he returned, he was cuddly, sweet, and clingy.
I've held off writing about his return because we weren't entirely certain he would stay alive. Fortunately, he's beginning to fill out nicely.
He does, however, skulk by the screen door whenever it's left open for a second, eying up the small tear where he escaped two months ago. Both my mom and I have had to yank him away when he's made moves towards it.
Ian suspects Spottswood simply wants to maintain his slim figure.
Laura: "You know what Spottswood says: 'Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels'."
So Spottswood Michael is home. Our family is complete again.
