So I got out of the lift this morning, turned left (as I usually do) to walk down the slope and towards school, when I stopped dead in my tracks.

Right outside my block, on the pavement near the carpark, was a cat that vaguely resembled Squee. White base, patches of grey tabby, with a thin, long tabby tail.

Of course I stepped towards it to take a closer look, and as I examined its too-small ears, its lack of Squee's famous bird tattoo tabby patch, and tabby patches that were a few shades lighter than his... The most significant thing that stayed in my mind as I walked away was this: This cat wasn't Squee. Squee, well.. He looked way better.

See, the most beautiful things in your life are those that actually grow on you. Not things like Rodrigo Santoro, but that's a story for another time, eh. ;p

I wondered... as I was on the shuttle bus... If it really had been Squee... Would I have dropped everything and bundled him up in my arms to take him back home? That feeling of "I've found you! You're back! My preciousssss..." (Ok ok, sans the latter)

How does this compare to the joy God feels when His wayward child makes his way home back to his Father...

I can only imagine.