Two Bay Windows, Two Heart Strings

Now that he has forgiven me for his stay at the cat hotel (which I promise never to repeat), Bunter and I have returned to a nice daily routine of peaceful coexistence. When I first returned a couple of weeks ago, he had to be physically next to me 24 hours a day which was touching in a way but pretty cloying by the third day.

Things are back to normal with him gravitating to the back (east) end of the house to sun in the bay windows in the morning and then we swap in the afternoon. So around four this afternoon when I heard this fragile, heart churning meow that came from the feline above (actually captured a couple of weeks earlier on a previous visit). I tried not to look, but this cat was such an excellent sales person, I had to go out in the garden. There was the initial stalking pause as he seemed poised to run, after which I crouched down meekly, and it approached me with attention starved purrs. Though it looked in good health I could find no collar, and the fur was definitely not the pampered silky texture of Bunter's.

No, I concluded, I'm not going to get sucked in and went to the now balmy front sitting room, where I peered out the window to see creature at the bottom of this post. I decided to wait a couple of minutes and noticed at least half a dozen people pass by, most ignoring him, some giving the most casual of unconcerned glances.

An old made for TV movie from the 1970s with Ed Asner about people in Manhattan witnessing a murder but refusing to "get involved" raced through my head, and I recalled that I pledged all those eons ago that I'd never become that sort of jaded urban dweller.

There were sounds emitting from this creature as well, but not the type that made me want to hover over him with a bowl of milk and say, "Aren't you a pretty baby?"

As I walked down the steps and opened the gate, Maria, the octogenarian Latina next door was already hovering over him with her cordless phone, babbling at him in far better Spanish than I could muster, though he was slurring so much that our mastery of the language was about equal. She was using a call to the cops just as a threat, and in moment he stumbled along, albeit having done a good number on my Elysium.

Fortunately when I returned to the back sitting room, the feline self-promoter was gone. But there's always tomorrow, and I feat that cat's got my number.