Overzealous tree-trimming or where is Henry?

So everything was just fine until the tree-trimmers came. I’d see Henry nearly every day, strutting along the retaining wall, burying his little nutty treasures in the rough beneath the fruit trees, bustling about, living his nutty little life. Then the tree-trimmers burst on the scene, chainsaws flashing, leaves exploding, dead branches dropping to the earth like rifles from the hands of wounded soldiers. When the dust settled, Henry was nowhere to be found. I was in denial that my effort to beautify the yard had destroyed his world. Maybe he had died of thirst, since we are in the midst of this wicked drought. Maybe he’d been gunned down by my pellet gun-toting neighbor. Maybe he’d just moved on, bored with my shit.

Weeks went by with no sign of Henry. I mentioned the situation to friends who made no effort to console me, saying things like “good riddance” and “everything dies.” I placed a pan of water on the ledge above the retaining wall, thinking Henry might smell the water and come home.

Then I dreamed of him. He was alive and vibrant, fluffy tail raised to the sky, chattering happily. The next day I told a friend about the dream, and she said, “He’s dead. That’s the only time we ever dream of animals is when they’re dead.”

Was she right? I thought about it. I’ve had dreams about Chloe, our fluffy white cat, who is alive as can be. My hopes rose.

Weeks passed and a tree that I never recognized as an apple tree began to bare fruit. Wildlife were obviously feasting on the little green apples throughout the night, the ground beneath the canopy strewn with half-eaten apples every morning. I had assumed it was the damned crows but … you know where I’m headed with this. Henry had returned.

He’s not talking about where he went or why he went there. He just looks at me, cheeks full, as if to say, “Watch what you’re cutting down, Jack.”