I had a cat.
He was never around when I needed him. Ponderous chunks of time would plod painfully by, and my days came and went. Occasionally my cat offered pleasing distraction as I waited for the paint to peel and for yesterday’s water to boil. Emotionless molasses does drip unhurriedly—scouts honor, and I named my cat Scout, and he was frequently on long-range patrol.
Find the time to watch a cat play with a ball of yarn. I did often and I would disengage, surreptitious seconds blending into minutes and eternity, and I would shake my head and say, “look at that damn cat.” Then I’d remember that I hadn’t showered in days, my stubble sandpaper.
Scout was useless and indispensable. I would leave his fur in my sweater, reminding me how much I hated and missed him.
I bought a mouse to lure him back, entice devotion, and cement his attention. I dangled it by a back leg over a chunk of cheddar. I’ve always been skilled at tying knots.
But Scout never returned.
Until he does—if he does—it is just me and a ball of orange yarn.
I don’t knit, but I can learn. Watching molasses gets old, so why not something new?
I fancy a new sweater, too, and winter is on the way.
I will also set out a saucer of fresh milk. It is unlikely to attract my cat, but I am a free and captive man.
So, any cat will do.