Friend of Sutton

 

“Hello? Hello? Excuse me? You are a friend of Sutton?”

A nondescript silver car has pulled up alongside me. I’m on the last block of my evening walk, heading home against the wind that never stops. Who is this hailing me?

            I look inside the car with a loud yapping dog in the back seat. I don’t see the dog, but I hear it. Its barking is shrill and incessant.

            The driver of the car is an old white lady in a blue flowered strapless Culotte getup. The spaghetti straps hang loosely over her bony shoulders; the seatbelt fastened across her chest. She’s nervous, visibly so, not shaking exactly but hesitant in her speech.

            Who is she?

            I do know Sutton. He’s a cat that lives up the street. For months there were signs in the window that he had ‘penned’: “Hi, I’m Sutton. I’m 3 years old.” And then the next week a sign would be beside the first one: “I’m a tuxedo harlequin cat.” Finally, after a couple of weeks a third sign appeared: “I am a rescue cat. My sister’s name is Rosie.”

            Sutton would sit serenely on his cat architecture, gazing out the window at passersby. “Hi Sutton!” I’d call out.

            He’d blink slowly, then stare past me at a leaf blowing down the sidewalk beside me.

            Was this woman now Sutton’s mom? I had met her once, but don’t remember anything about her except she was an old white lady. This could be her. Or obviously, it was her.

            “PJ told me that you play and teach piano?” she said now, leaning toward me from the driver’s seat, the dog’s yapping intensifying.

            “Yes, I do,” I answer, thinking maybe she wants to take piano lessons. That would be cool. I can always use more students.     

            “I have a baby grand piano,” she continues… “and I’m wondering if you would like it or if you know anyone who might like it. They’re just giving them away now, you know?”

            I nod, knowing this is true at the same time wondering why she’s asking me if I want her piano. I have a piano. Shouldn’t this be obvious? It’s like when people find stray cats or kittens and then know I have cats and ask me if I want the found cat. I already have a cat. Why would I want another one.

            I already have a baby grand piano. Why would I want another one?

            I don’t say any of this to her, though, just mention that one of my piano students did, in fact, find a piano for free at an estate sale. All he had to do was pay to move it.

            She ignores this story and continues.

            “If you want, you can stop by and check it out. See what kind of condition it’s in.  Play it if you want….”

            Her voice trails off. The dog continues to bark.

            I’m a piano broker now? It’s so strange to be stopped on my walk to be offered a free piano or to ask if I know anyone who wants one. Though, in a way, this makes sense, I suppose. I do teach piano and one of my students might need a piano. I did give my old piano to one of my students. It happens. But I honestly don’t have time to go around checking out used pianos and finding homes for them.

            Though…I am curious about the inside of her house and seeing Sutton again.

            “I’m moving. Well…my daughter is moving me….to a retirement community…”  She pauses, musing briefly. I wonder if she wants to move or if it’s a daughter instigated action.

            “Where are you moving to?” I ask.

            “San Diego.”

            “Oh, my mom and sister live in San Diego.”

            She ignores this and continues with the piano talk. “I’m home all the time. I see you walking past my house everyday. You could just stop in and check out the piano….”

            The dog’s barking becomes shriller if that’s possible. Why can’t I see it? I wonder. Maybe she has it in a small dog kennel behind the seat. It sounds really mad!

            “I have to go now,” she continues. “My daughter…she’s expecting me…. I have to go pick her up.”

            “Okay,” I say, smiling. “Maybe I’ll stop by sometime. When are you moving?”

            “Oh, not till the end of the year. I just want to get this piano taken care of.”

            “Won’t you miss it? Do you play?”

            “Oh…” she giggles softly. “I do, but not very well. I just play for myself. You know what I mean?”

            “Yes, I do,” I say, thinking how at this point in my life I only play the piano for myself unless Ian is around. He likes to hear me play Ponce’s Intermezzo #1 in E minor and Chopin’s Waltz in A minor.

            The yapping becomes frantic and even louder. “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry. I have to go…”
            She puts the car into gear and pulls away from me. I watch her taillights turn red at the stop sign and then the left-hand blinker goes on.

            I continue home. It’s only a few hundred steps away. As I turn up the walkway to my house, I hear the notes of Chopin’s Waltz in A minor floating through the air. It’s my piano student across the street, practicing.

            Unlocking the front door, I step in. The baby grand piano greets me. I kick off my shoes, head over to the keyboard and start playing the Ponce, letting the melody carry me away to another world of romance and magic. In Mexico. By the sea. Palm trees singing in the breeze.

Lang Lang plays Ponce Intermezzo

            Another world that only music can take me to. With  a little help of a baby grand piano. Of course!

Sophie

 

“You can come in.”

Do I dare? I’ve been walking by their house for years, saying ‘Hi’, how’s the cat? Then the cat died. They got two more cats, Sophie and Pebbles. Siblings. But unlike the cat who died, Lucy, they were indoor cats. I’d never seen them, let alone met them.

            My neighbor, whose name I didn’t know, (Yes, I know all the cats’ names, but rarely their owners) stepped over the threshold, short, balding, bad teeth, Raiders’ T-Shirt. In fact, there had always been a Raiders Flag flying outside their house, whipping in the wind as he and his wife sat on the porch, puffing on cigarettes.

            She was here today too, but over in the driveway, supervising some worker guy taking apart the door of their old Toyota, the door lying on its side on the drive, wires and marron stuffing spilling out of it. Of course, I wondered what had happened to the car, but I didn’t ask. Instead I just asked, as usual, how the cats were doing.

            Hence the invitation to enter the house, “Sophie’s right in the window,” the wife said, tucking a long stringy strand of dishwater blond  hair behind her ear.

            “Is she?” the husband shook his head. “Oh, yeah. Here she is.”

            The door was open and as I stepped inside I was confronted by an environment that mesmerized me by its insanity. The curtains were all drawn; not an ounce of light entered the cluttered living room. It was dark, smelling of cigarettes and stale beer. A huge screen TV was on, neon flashing of Raiders’ logos in fluorescent limes and fuchsias. The floor was covered with stuff. Boxes, strewn clothes, the coffee table piled high with dirty beer glasses and ashtrays.

            The place was another world. One that I never would have guessed existed. How could I imagine such a place that was so far removed from my own place of space, light, and music.

            The cat, though, sat proudly on the high shelf just inside the door. Tall and regal and large, she sported a plush grey and white coat, white paws and whiskers. She blinked at me with green, yellow eyes. I held my hand out to her and she took the invitation, nuzzling me with her wet nose and rubbing my hand with her lips.

            “Oh, she’s a lover!” I exclaimed.

            “Yeah, she is,” the owner chuckled. “Her sister, on the other hand, is a shy one.”

            “And she’s so large!” I continued to pet her smooth coat and Sophie responded, rubbing up against my hand, purring softly.

Image Credit: Nynke van Holten, Shutterstock

            “She is!” the wife was at the doorway now leaving the car dismantle man unsupervised for a moment. Cats are always the priority. “I have to monitor her food intake. Keep her away from her sister. Or she’ll eat all the food. The sister is smaller. They’re sisters. But they are different.”

            And I think. Yes, sisters are different. I and my sisters have differences, in looks, behaviors and psychologies.  We are different sizes. Well, my middle sister and I are about the same size. But my little sister is more athletic, strong and solid. She has brown hair and olive skin, like my father, whereas my middle sister and I are blonde with fair skin, like our mother.

            I think we would share our food though. In fact, my middle sister just mentioned yesterday how she could live with me cuz we eat the same food in the same amount. Bagels for breakfast. Quesadillas for lunch. Pasta and broccoli for dinner. The occasional cookie. Though she doesn’t like to layer the M&Ms on the cookie like I do.  It’s too much for her.

            And my little sister? I think she eats more variety. Maybe she eats bagels for breakfast. Maybe not. I don’t know what she eats. I do know that she bakes a mean apple pie though.

           

            Sophie backs away a little now. Maybe she’s had enough pets? I’ve had enough cigarette air and spooky Raiders room.

            I back out, turn to head down the stairs. “Thanks for the visit with Sophie,” I tell them. “She’s a beautiful, large and friendly girl.”

            The couple beams. “That she is!” the man agrees, twirling an unlit cigarette between his rough brown fingers.

            Car dismantler calls over to them, says something unintelligible in Spanish. Sophie’s dad answers.

            In Spanish.

            Great! I can practice my Spanish with them next time I walk by.

            But I don’t think I’m going to go inside that house again. It was out of a tarantula’s nightmare. Dark, sticky, smelly, scary.

            Heading down 31^st street, I quicken my pace to cross the street before a black Ford Exploder plows me over.

            On the other side of Roosevelt I breathe the fresh air in deeply, before turning the corner to tromp down Downer Street, a crow cawing overhead as it dives for a piece of garbage left in the middle of the street. 

Cat Humping

 

“That’s impressive that they’re next to each other eating.” I’ve stopped midstride to comment on a pair of cats, one black and white, one grey plush, head-to-head, chowing down on bowls of kibble. A woman, white middle-aged cat lady, stands in front of them on the front lawn, phone in hand, taking photos.

            “Yes, well, it’s taken some time. But the black and white one is very aggressive.”

            I nod, thinking about my own pair of tabbies back at home. Little old lady Ivy, a new comer to the house, AKA The Mansion, has turned out to be the aggressive, dominant cat. Always meowing loudly at poor little Clara, who turns tail and runs to hide: on top of the refrigerator, behind the washing machine, knocking over the photos on the piano. I feel bad about this dynamic, but what can I do? It’s the way of cats; one is always going to be top cat.

            “I know what you mean,” I say to Cat Lady now. “But my two cats wouldn’t eat next to each other like that.”

            She smiles at me, clicking a photo.

            “That looks like Smoky,” I say pointing to the grey plush cat.

            “Oh…” she sighs, shakes her head, “Smoky is no longer with us.”

            Immediately I think he’s been run over. These cats in the neighborhood just meander across the street without looking both ways. And people in the neighborhood drive like Poop Heads as my piano student calls them. Screeching up and down the streets, doing donuts in the intersections, passing each other at stop signs when a pedestrian wants to cross. It’s the Wild West!

            “Oh, I’m sorry to hear this,” I say, trying to keep the sadness out of my tone. Smoky was a very friendly grey plusher, doing rollovers on the sidewalk and demanding pets from passersby.

            “Yes, well, the people who took him wanted him. I hear that he’s doing well.”

            Breathing a sigh of relief, I nod, watching as the two cats in front of me devour the last morsels of their meals.

            “We don’t know who the black and white one belongs to. That’s why I’m taking photos to post.”

            “He looks like the black and white one across the street,” I note.

            “No, Oreo has more white on him.”

            “Ah….” Cat Lady knows her neighborhood felines. Why is it that every neighborhood has a Cat Lady that takes it upon herself to watch over the cats? It’s never a man. And it’s never a young woman. I suppose they have real human babies to look after.

            “I want to make sure that she’s fixed,” she nods toward the grey plusher, who has lifted her head, eyeing Mr. Aggressor.

            Then she bolts. Dashing across the street. And he’s after her. Fortunately, no cars are careening down 32^nd street at the moment.

            I watch as Grey Plusher reaches the sidewalk, but then Mr. Aggressor has caught her. Mounts her from behind. Starts a mighty humping.

            “Well, I hope she’s fixed too,” I say. “Cause there’s some frantic cat sex going on right now.”

            Cat Lady laughs, “Isn’t it a bit early?”

            We both chuckle, “Yeah, why didn’t he wait till the afternoon?”

            I turn and start down the street, the bright crisp January morning enveloping me.

            “You have a good rest of your day,” Cat Lady calls after me.

            “You, too,” I answer, pausing for a moment to watch the cat action. He’s still on top of her, humping away.

            As I turn the corner, I think, well, if Grey Plusher isn’t fixed, they’ll produce some very cute kittens.

So Excited

 

“She just gets so excited!” The pretty young dark-haired woman pulls the black dog closer to her, allowing me to pass. I had seen them up ahead for the last few blocks of 32^nd Street, thinking that I wouldn’t catch up to them. They were just specks head, a woman in a sleeveless brown pantsuit with the dark mid-sized dog tugging at its leash.

            But this tugging had slowed them down, so when I did catch up to them, I could see that the dog had one of those scary back nettings on its head. Foxtail-up-the-nose prevention. I’d learned this the other day with the two corgis. Yes, I can understand the practicality of this accoutrement, but still, it looked diabolical.

            Now as I neared the woman and her dog, the dog tried to approach me. I could tell despite the diabolical mask that she wanted me to pet her. Her head jutted out toward me and her slim little body wiggled in delightful anticipation. But the woman held her back, explaining the excitement.

            “I get it,” I said, marching past them, but then thinking, Actually, I don’t get it. At least from my perspective. I can’t remember the last time I was so excited that I strained at my leash. It’s been years.

            Why is this? Is it old age? The tiredness and routine of it all doesn’t create many opportunities for excitement? And when I try to think back to an instance of excitement, I can’t think of anything.

            Maybe from a dog’s perspective, everything is exciting! I hear the woman murmur to the hound, “I know…. I know…. you just want to make friends.”

            This is exciting! A dog is all about making friends. And the excitement of new people pushes most dogs into an ecstatic frenzy. I think about my mom’s little dog, S, with her barking, jumping, and zooming. Whenever Ian and I go to visit, S is so excited. She barks as we enter the house, standing her ground and going to town. Then when we settle down into the big black leather chairs, she makes the rounds, jumping from lap to lap. First me, then Ian, then my sister, then back to Ian.

            She likes men.

            And who could blame her? He is pretty exciting.

            I remember when I was excited to meet him. So long ago. An ad on Craigslist. An agreement to rendezvous at Green Apple Books in the City. That first meeting across the stacks of books. His blue eyes twinkling across the new releases with his glasses perched on his nose.

            I was so excited!

            So, today, when I say “I get it” about the dog, simply meaning that I knew she’d jump all over me, another part of me did get it. Though I had to think about it awhile.

            Dogs react with energy and excitement at anybody new. Even if they can’t make friends, they want to. As I turn the corner onto MacBryde, my morning walk halfway through, I hear the two of them behind me. She’s saying something to the dog. I can’t make out what.

            But I know the dog is excited. Cause she knows that  new friends await her just around the next corner.

Lady Love

 

“Oh, here we go…. He loves the ladies, don’t ya Dixon!”  proclaims one of the middle-aged white guys hanging out in front of the open garage. The tired Australian Cattle dog heaves himself off his lying down position on the driveway.  He slowly rises, his brown eyes eager, but his old doggie body not keeping up. I remember when he was a young, spry mutt. Running around on the lawn, tossing toys up in the air, trotting over to me, tongue out, step spry.

            But now? He’s another animal.

            I’m squatting down at his level, my hand out to greet, and he finally makes it up to me for a nuzzle and a cuddle. He’s so cobby and plush, his fur that grey mottled thickness that distinguishes his breed. When Owen Hill and I were together, he wanted an Australian Cattle dog so bad. We called them ‘Ready-to-Go’ dogs since they were always full of energy and bounce.

We never got this dog. It just wasn’t feasible, living in small north Oakland apartments with no yard. Besides the fact that the two tortoise-shell cats, Gertrude and Alice, would have been livid.

            As I pat Dixon now, I ask his age: “13” one of the men tells me.

            “Ah,” I murmur. Not a young dog anymore.

            But then none of us are young anymore. I find myself mystified by the aging process. Looking in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. Where did I go? I feel the same inside. Well, mostly. There are certainly moments where I wonder where that inner self went too. At this point, I’ve been so many different selves. The angst-ridden teenager. The confused 20-year-old. The professional 30-year-old. The wild 40-year-old. The now what? 50-year-old. The I better get it done soon 60-year-old.

            Dixon lets me pet him for a few moments, then turns and heads back to his spot in the shady driveway.

            “Yup, he does love the ladies,” one of the men repeats, chuckling.

            “That’s cuz we all appreciate how handsome he is!” I grin.

            Both men laugh, nodding. I glance up at them. They aren’t handsome. They’re old geezers, dressed in dirty overalls, wearing backwards ball caps on their thinning crowns, their faces pale and wrinkled in the late morning light.

            But I know I’m no beauty either. Only Dixon keeps his looks. Old as he is, he’s still a stellar example of a Ready to Go dog.

            I wonder why dogs (and cats) never show their age like people do. It’s because of their fur, of course, we can’t see their skin like we can with people. But also, I think it’s part of their wild animal spirit, too. Even though Dixon is slowing down, he still possesses that Ready to Go persona. I can see it in his eyes, bright and intelligent.

            And, he knows a lady when he sees one, I think, grinning to myself in all my ladyness.

            “You guys have a good day,” I call out to the men, turning to continue my walk up 32^nd street to turn at McBryde.

            “Yeah, you too,” they both call out, the overalled man, waving a wrench in my direction. Always working on his orange 1970s Datsun, tools are attached to his limbs.

            A brisk wind hits me in the face as I turn onto McBryde. Damn, I think, I really hate the wind.     But it’s worth braving the elements to pet Dixon. After all, he loves the ladies. And who could ask for anything better on a breezy Monday morning?

¡Buenos Días!

 

“¡Buenos días!” The morning greeting rang out, floating into the blue sky, fading into the lifting fog.

            Where was I? Mexico? Costa Rica? Spain?

            Nope, just here in my neighborhood, the North and East of Richmond, California, where at least half my neighbors are Spanish speaking.

            This morning, as I head up my street, I can’t quite tell where the greeting is coming from. I stop for a moment on the sidewalk, glance behind me. Nope. No one there. Stare over across the street toward Rosa’s house. Nope, she’s not out. And, then, I hear the musical rapido of Spanish, too quick for me to decipher, especially if I’m not next to the speakers.

            It’s the guy who’s been weed eating my neighbor’s three-foot-high grasses for the last 2 hours, a short, elderly hombre with glasses, a plaid jacket, sagging blue jeans, and a ramshackle red trailer, the sides covered with weatherworn artwork of Chinese horses and their trainers, seascapes with rowboats floating near docks, a wooden flat sculpture of a golfing beaver.

            A woman is chatting with him. Taller than him, clad in a flowery red moo-moo, she’s nodding and smiling as the Spanish rattles on. I’ve never seen her before. Not a neighbor from my block. But Weeder Man’s truck I’ve seen before, parked down Roosevelt and 27^th street in front of a high walled cement house with the flag of Guatemala flying in front.

            I’m tempted to go over and practice my Spanish with them, but my speaking is so muy malo, and I do want to get my walk in before the UV gets too high, so I walk on past them, not even waving.

            The morning is the same as always. Bright blue sky, mocking birds singing, a light breeze blowing, the same dogs barking at me as I march past: “RRRUUUUFFF RUUUUFFFF RUFFFF!”

            “ZOE! STOP IT!” shouts her owner.

            Zoe never does. I’ve gotten used to her barking, and depending on my mood, I’ll either hurry on by, or mutter, “Fuck you, Zoe.”

            Today, as I stride through my usual route, up 31^st street, down McBryde to 33^rd, and then to Barrett, I’m lighter than usual. I’ve got a break from work and it’s delicious. I don’t have to review or respond to any essays for an entire week! So, when I head back home up 30^th street and Whispo, the grey tabby boy, comes bounding out to me, I’ve got some extra time to hang out with him. He obliges. Rolling over on the sidewalk. Rubbing his chin on my shoes. But then when I start to head home, he insists on following me.

            I remember when I was a kid living in Hacienda Heights, my cat, Didi would try to follow me to school. Sometimes, she’d get as far as Colma Ave, a big four lane highway. I’d have to shout at her, stomping my feet, “DIDI! GO HOME!”

            She’d stare at me for a moment, big golden eyes unblinking, before turning and running back down the hill to Lonecrest Drive.

            Today, I try these methods of discouragement with Whispo, but to no avail. I’m in front of his house and hear a shuddering of the gate at the end of his driveway. I’ve never seen any people at his house, so this ruckus is unusual.

            Suddenly, bursting through the gate is a bushy blonde haired wiry man with a rainbow beanie on and two yappy little dogs on leashes. Whispo goes running up to them, completely unafraid.

            “I’m glad to see you,” I say. “Is this your cat?”

            “Yes.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Acatmeow.”

            “Acatmeow?” I repeat, thinking what kind of name is that?

            “That’s right,” he grins at me, his tan face reminding me of surfers I knew is Santa Cruz with their weathered laid-back vibe.

            “He doesn’t seem afraid of the dogs,” I comment.

            “Nah, they all get along,” he’s trying to keep the dogs from scurrying away from him while Acatmeow stands in front of them, trying to block their progress.

            “That’s so cute,” I say.

            “Hella CUTE!” he proclaims before finally letting the dogs pull him out onto the sidewalk and away from me.

            As I make my final way home, back down 32^nd street, the Spanish speakers are gone, but a woman is walking toward me with a little black dog. She’s about my age, 50s 60s?  A White middle-aged woman with strawberry blonde curls poking out of an olive-green baseball cap. I know she’s my new neighbor that moved in a couple of months ago, but I just haven’t ‘run’ into her yet.

            Today, we stop, smile at each other, “Did you just move in?” I ask.

            “Yes, a few months ago,” she nods, friendly, open.

            “And who is this?” I ask, bending down to the little dog.

            “This is Merlin. He’s a rescue.”

            Why do people always tell you that their dogs are rescued? Is it a source of pride? A citizen doing good for the likes of our four-legged friends? I like that people are rescuing dogs, but do I need to know this? I’m never impressed by it if that is the intention.

            “Hi, Merlin,” I pat him on the head. He’s a little skittish, but not ferocious.

            “I’m Carol,” I say.

            “Oh, I’m Lucinda.”

            “Nice to meet you,” I nod.

            “Do you live here with your partner?” she asks, probably having seen Ian coming and going.

            “No, he comes to visit, but I live alone with my wild orange tabby, Clara. Do you live here with your partner?” I ask.

            Her face falls, almost imperceptibly, before replying, “No, I’m a widow. So, no, I don’t live with her anymore. I live alone….”

            “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I offer, cuz what else can I say? I don’t know her, but her sadness is palpable. And to introduce herself as a widow exaggerates the emotion. I think of my mother, a widow too, and the sadness she must feel every day missing my dad, her husband. I have no idea how widows go on. If I ever lost Ian, even though we’re not ‘married’ I would be destroyed.

            Yet, the widows go on. Walking their dogs. Meeting their neighbors. Smiling at the day.

            I leave her to head out to hers, crossing the street, Murray the Mockingbird trilling a greeting. “¡Buenos días!” he sings out.

            Really? A Spanish singing bird?

photo, Ron Dudley

            Only in my neighborhood. Only in Richmond. Only in my brain.

Miss No Name

 

“Is that your kitty?”

I’d paused for a moment on the sidewalk after watching the driver of a white Toyota painfully try to park in the driveway, grinding the gears, inching forwards and backwards, trying to get as close to the low cement wall as possible. Maybe to make room for another vehicle?

The compact man in a navy hoodie who now emerged from the Toyota grinned at me.  I pointed to a brown tabby cat that had appeared at just the same moment as he had left his car.

Shaking his head, his smile broadened, “No, she’s not mine. She belong across the street. She has two brothers, a black and white one and a black one. I feed them, put the food out,” he pointed toward his porch where several empty cat dishes were scattered.

A nasty cold wind with a smattering of moisture blew at us. Not rain exactly. But cold and wet. We both held on to our hoodies till the gust passed.

“What’s her name?” I asked, as the kitty wound around under the car, rubbing her lips on the tires, the edge of the concrete wall.

“She has no name,” he shrugged. “She’s a cat. She doesn’t need a name.”

“Or she has her own name that we don’t know because she is a cat!” I exclaim.

He laughed. “Yeah…. if she were a dog, she’d have a name.”

I bent down to try to get the tabby to come to me, extending my hand, fingers pointed in her direction for sniff. But she was coy. Coming forward a bit, then retreating as soon as I tried to pet her.

“She’s shy!” I laughed.

“She’s a cat,” he shrugged. “If she were a dog, she’d be….” Suddenly at a loss for words, he bent down slightly, crouching like a dog, sniffing the air, hands waving excitedly. “She’s be all over us!”

“Yes!” I agreed, thinking of the dogs I knew. How they had no qualms about jumping all over complete strangers. Earlier I had run into my piano student and his mom, pushing a blue baby stroller with their little fluffy white dog in it, I had bent down to pet the dog and she was so excited, turning around and around in frantic circles in her baby carriage, jumping at me, licking me. I was her best friend and she’d never met me before.

Whereas Miss No Name wasn’t anyone’s best friend upon first meeting. I was going to have to court her.

Trying again, I squatted on the sidewalk, trying to move toward her without falling over. Another gust of frigid water wind hit me in the face, making my balance even more perilous. “C’mere, Kitty,” I coaxed.

Compact Man just watched, grinning.

After about 30 seconds, she came up to me. Allowed a small pat on the top of her head, before scurrying away.

Laughing, I glanced up at Compact Man before standing, only a little wobbly. “I think she’s hungry. She knows it’s time for dinner now that you’re home.”

He nods, “Yes, I will feed her soon.”

Miss No Name rubbed against his legs. She knew how to get what she wants. Bending down, he scratched her under the chin, “You ready for some dinner?”

She didn’t meow. There was no need to voice her answer. Communication happened without sound between herself and her man.

Rain started to pelt me in cold hard drops. “I better get going!” I said, turning to go.

But the two of them were already gone, up the walkway, onto the porch, Miss No Name leading the way.