“So the neighborhood cat is named Carl, & when I arrived here last spring, he’d been billed as “feral”. I didn’t meet him right at first, and I was thirsty for more information. I got on my cell. “Is he ... a he?” I asked. She texted me back. “I remember we got him fixed, but I don’t remember if he was a male or a female”. Okay, not bad, I thought, mostly concerned that I say his name with the right inflection. And even if my two female cats don’t take to him, I bet the age difference will give him an edge. By this time, I’d seen him. He was svelt. Almost, well, fat. I petted him on the back porch, while he was checking us out. It sort of felt like a long, drawn out interview, where I was asked back about five times, and asked increasingly personal questions. “If I get in the house, how will I get out”, I heard him say. “How many doors?” “Are dogs allowed in?” “When’s dinner?” “Is it always tuna from a can?” “How can you afford that?” “Aren’t you concerned about poisoning us with mercury?” He didn’t actually say those last two bits. “How many cat boxes - will I have my own?” That sort of pushed my buttons. But fast forward, to tonight. He’s here, just ate all the dry food, wet food, drank tons of water and is in the cat box he likes, which I guess he’s agreed to share with my one, other remaining cat, Daisy. He loves it in there. It’s like how some people are with a hot shower. Maybe he used to live on a beach. Honestly, this guy is sort of a luxury hog. He belongs in Palm Springs. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, and there he is, just grooving on the stars in the skylight, purring, non-stop. He must have been mistreated by the other neighbors. I mean, like Ann, who left a $20 bill for him in an envelope under my windshield wiper, literally manna from heaven. You can see I’m being facetious. If this cat is feral, than I am a copy editor for Vogue. I’m sorry I don’t have a photo of him, but he’s very particular about who takes his picture, and which social media platforms he’s posted to. Facebook is clearly beneath him. I do remember the very first time I caught sight of him. This was way before any of you all had heard of him. I had just bought my house, and was trying to get to know the property, by kicking around the outbuildings, including a hoop house filled with past due tomato plants. It was like a jungle in there, and almost too hot & stuffy to even stand in for more than a minute. It was probably the last gasp of summer, early fall, that disheveled month of September, when all the ecstatic growth of the season starts to keel over and die. I poked at some plants, to see if I could find something not rotten on the vine. When suddenly, out of nowhere, something went flying through the air, & I jumped, I thought it was a wild critter and it flew out the window where the plastic was gone. Carl. I know that was you. You incredible adept. I was not to meet you formally for 8 more months. It reminds me now, of how long one waits to meet “the guru”. The build up is excruciating. The eventual collision immediately becomes a work in progress. As you lie on my antique table, body lithe & relaxed in the warmth of human habitation, I turn to you, in wonder. Your easy going, open-hearted affect, still arrests me. You have agreed to use my facilities, and I, for my part, have agreed to avail myself to your upkeep, as needed. You may come & go as you please. As the ice unlocks in the streams, and the roads become riddled with mud, as the rain turns to wet snow, I will look for your tiny foot prints. Open the door when you meow. And make us both happy, using the simple rules, of gracious hospitality.”
