Mom says this is a guest posting. She says this guy Steve was a friend of hers in College. What's College?
Anyway, I don't think Steve is even a cat! But it was fun to hear about the squirrels and the birdies and the catnip. I used to take walks in our backyard but only with Mom and she never put me on a leash.
So I finally met him. The guy is a lot like me - inventing novel solutions to everyday problems.In mid fall I looked out the window and there on the sidewalk was this funny little man, about my age, in jeans and a baseball cap. He held a leash and far behind him trailed a kind of rust colored fur-ball. From time to time he would tug gently on the leash and the fur ball would kind of drag along behind him. After some time he got close enough that I could identify this rusty fur ball as a very shaggy cat. "Hmm," I thought. "Walking the cat, are we. Bet he loves that!"
You could almost hear the cat complaining. It did not make a noise but it was unhappy in all the distinctive ways cats can be unhappy. Some days later I saw the same little man in jeans and a baseball cap with a leash. The cat followed in a kind of general sense. Sometimes he would approach the man's heal sometimes he would lag behind or sit down, just to protest. But gone was the impression that the cat was sort of being dragged. He might laze about a bit, but he seemed perfectly resigned to the idea of a walk.
Today I was outside bringing in the garbage can. I looked down the sidewalk and saw a cat tugging at the end of a leash. His owner trailed behind. It was the little man in the jeans and baseball cap. I waved. The two of them approached. I commented on how unusual it is to see someone walking his cat. It was clear that, after three months of the ritual he was prepared to discuss the merits of the practice at some length. Most of these had to do with solving a litany of potential cat ailments I do not remember.
"And this is his favorite spot, " he told me. "He likes to come here and sniff about underneath the crab apple among the catmint." It was clear this was so. For the rust colored fur-ball was already in the bed well past the arching canes of the rose and in among the catmint. He had entered 'feline hunting mode' and took the stance of a pointing dog. "He loves the smell of the squirrels and birds. You've really created quite a natural habitat here. The birds fly around above us saying 'factory, parking lot, interstate, shopping center, cosmetics plant, distribution center, massive apartment complex, Steve's back yard. Let's stop here."
A man in a truck pulled up. "He is here to paint our house. Gotta go," I said.
Next time I need to invite him and his cat to look around the back yard.
Steve
Walking the Cat - posted by Vicki at Fri, 10 Feb, 14:04 Pacific | «e»