I turn on lights as I pass through rooms, and inside my kitchen of cherry cabinets and stainless-steel appliances I set down shopping bags and shut Shaw inside the pantry so she doesn’t wander off or hide. I take Sock out to the backyard, where my rose garden has lost its last blooms and the stained-glass window in the stairwell is backlit and vibrant. I apologize to Sock for getting home so late, and I know from e-mails that the housekeeper last let him out at five and gave him several treats. But he hasn’t been fed, unless Benton took care of it, and I feel like a negligent mother.

Sock is a lean, long-legged silhouette sniffing his pointed nose, moving like a shadow through the yard with its stone wall that neighborhood children like to climb over, and he has his favorite spots where there are no motion-sensor lights. Then he follows me back inside, and I feed him and pet him and begin to fill a sink with warm water as I gather towels and wonder where Benton is.

“I haven’t had a cat in a while,” I talk to her as I retrieve her from the pantry and she purrs. “And I know you aren’t going to be happy, but try to think of it as a spa.”

I pull a chair out from the kitchen table and place her in my lap and clip her claws.

“Well, it seems you’ve had that done before, but maybe not a bath. Cats hate water, or that’s what we’re told, but tigers like to swim, so who knows what’s true.”

I put on rubber gloves and lower her into the warm water, lathering her with flea shampoo and finishing with oatmeal, and she looks at me with her big, round eyes and I start to cry.

I don’t know why.

“You’re quite the sport.” I rub her with a big, soft towel. “I’ve never seen a cat that’s such a good sport.”

I wipe my eyes.

“You’re more like a dog.” I look at Sock, who is in his bed near the door. “Both of you orphaned rather much the same way.”

I cry some more.

“The people you were with aren’t around anymore, and then I bring you home with me and I realize it’s not the same.”