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.