Inland, Dreaming of Waves

This is about a cat, or, I’m desperate to meet people

Rufus is our cat. He’s a 10-year-old black tabby whose owners gave him to us because he didn’t “travel” well, but really they got tired if him biting their other cats on the butt. I’ve seen him do it, too. The other cat always shrieks indignantly.

But we seem to have acquired another cat, an orange tabby with a beautiful white breast and the most wistful eyes. When he tilts his head and looks at me that way, I’d swear he’s a girl, but it’s just his expression. At that point, I usually let him in.

Todd and I wondered if this cat had an owner, but it looked well-cared-for, so we assumed it wasn’t feral. Just to make sure, though, we bought a collar and a little message holder—you know, like a bottle tossed in the ocean with a note?—and wrote on a slip of paper, “If you own this cat, call us at this number.”

And she did. Her name is Sarah, and the cat’s name is Bailey. For a while we called him Pedro after the character in Napoleon Dynamite. He answers equally well—that is to say, not at all—to either one. But he will come to “kitty, kitty, kitty.”

(Everyone should do what our friends did and name their cat “Kitty.”)

Sarah and I had quite the conversation about Bailey/Pedro. We agreed that he was getting fat, even though he’s eating Rufus’s diet food. We agreed that he was very friendly. I learned where her house was, and vice versa. I even told her to come over sometime, though I doubt she ever will.

It would be fun to know everyone who lived on the park. We should have a Lac Amora park party. With our cats.

posted by Price of Silence @ 9:20 PM