Nobody Owns a Cat

There are a couple of cats without collars in the neighborhood.  A big fluffy gray tabby and one midnight black beauty.  They roam freely, brazenly crossing property lines with a distinct disdain for the dogs confined to each area. They have patterns: in the early hours of the morning, they enjoy grooming on my front walkway, in full view of our floor to ceiling windows and our three dogs.  In the late afternoon, they hunt the birds feeding in our backyard leaving trace evidence in the form of downy feathers.  In inclement weather, a glimpse of a shadow disappearing beneath the shed is evidence of a hiding space.

The cats know their freedom, recognize the limitations of the neighborhood dogs and taunt them with this knowledge.  Abby was sunning herself on the back deck while I enjoyed the spring afternoon and a cup of tea.  Tiny white petals sprinkled around us, caught in the gentle breeze from the Bradford pear trees.  The neighbor dogs sounded the alarm:  a cat was on the grounds.  Abby leapt to her feet and pushed her nose through the wire strands of deck.  A black cat crept among the daffodils.  Abby barked and snorted and kicked her hind legs.  I pretended to open the back gate and the cat moved to the next yard with deliberate casualness.  I stroked Abby’s head and praised her for vanquishing the cat. 

A few moments passed and the neighbor dogs began their cat calls again.  Abby pressed her nose against the gate, widened her eyes and violently barked, clanking the black metal bars of her barricade.  I approached her and looked toward the ground.  Nothing.  I then followed Abby’s gaze slightly upward:  two glittering emerald green eyes stared boldly at Abby.  The black cat was perched atop the garden pergola with an equal height to the top of the deck.

According to Lilian Jackson Braun, “Dogs have their day but cats have 365.”  It was clear to both Abby and me that the cat had this day.