My last cat, Phurball, died two years ago. I’ve had no cat since. I have to go over to Romilly‘s house to get my cat fix.
Many times I’ve thought of scoping out the animal shelter for a new cat, but I haven’t done so. Although I’ve lived with cats all my life, I’ve never sought one out—they just show up on the doorstep, by one means or another. I’ve told the tale of how Phurball came to live with me. So the idea of going to the shelter never really came to fruition, because I keep waiting for my next cat to show up on my doorstep. So far, no cat.
Well, that’s not entirely true. There is a cat who’s taken up residence around our house. He’s a big black-and-white tomcat, whom I’ve chased off in the past when I saw him stalking Phurball. Now that Phurball is gone, there’s no reason to shoo him off, and he appears to have staked out my house as part of his territory. I see other cats from time to time, but this guy always drives them off. I’m pretty sure he’s a feral cat; he’s a rather scruffy-looking character.
I mentioned all of this to my husband one evening. “Maybe that’s why my next cat hasn’t shown up yet,” I finished. “Maybe this cat is chasing it away.”
My husband has been willing to have a cat for my sake, but has never been wildly enthusiastic about it. “Maybe this cat is my representative in the matter,” he pointed out.
Yesterday when I came home the cat was sunning himself on the sidewalk. I noticed that he no longer runs away as soon as I come out the door, and now allows me to pass by fairly close to him without fleeing. A thought occurred to me: Maybe this is my next cat. It’s just the kind of cat my husband would like: one that never comes indoors.
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