I've been trying to work on a paper this morning, but there's a big grey cat sitting outside my window, staring at me. He perches on the small plastic green stool I bought at Target, which is covered with dirt and pollen from this past Spring, and I'm concerned his underside will get dusty. A patch of sun illuminates his body, giving him a faint wavery aura, and I imagine what his warm fur smells like.

He's big (or is it a she?), and his coat is the color of charcoal. There's a collar around his neck, but I know he belongs to my next-door neighbor, who leaves him outside all the time, even in this frigid weather we've been having. His big green eyes look through me, into the depths of my soul, asking, "Why are you here? What's the meaning of it all?"

When I tap on the glass, he stretches his paws up, extending his claws into the mesh screen, just far enough to get a grip but not tear through. He butts his head against the window, yearning for a pet or a scratch, but I tell him, "I'm sorry, kitty, I can't go outside or let you inside because I'm allergic to cats. You would make my eyes water, and my breath stiffen, and my nose leak, and I would sneeze five or six times loudly in succession and scare you away." But he just continues to stare at me, and every once in a while he opens his mouth to say he understands.

Miaow.

Now Reading:
A Tale of a Tub by Jonathan Swift

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