Classic Tabby

There is a cat who lurks by the jungle that encloses the pool here. He is a silvery brown, and his stripes wind curled butterflies over his flanks. I see him sometimes when I go out to do the laundry. He will sit and regard me if I stand and regard him, but if either of us moves, the other vanishes.

I saw him today, my laundry basket in hand.

“Hello cat,” I called to him, and he watched attentively as I separated my zippered clothing from un.

“Did you know that the House passed CISPA today?”

He stares at me.

“Or that a fertilizer plant near Waco, Texas exploded after a fire? Or that there was a bombing at the Boston Marathon?”

But he is a cat, and he blinks in that way that cats have, eyes scrinched, that we could anthropomorphize into annoyance. It’s more than likely contented.

“People keep talking at me about these things as if there’s something else I can do about this stuff,” I tell him, and he rolls over onto his side in a puddle of sunlight. I go on, “I don’t have any money. I called my congressmen. I live here, not there. I try to buy local organic food so they don’t need those chemical fertilizers.”

My wash is in and spinning. It is a task unrelated to the rest of the world. I don’t think Barnard’s Star gives a fuck if I have clean things to wear.

I sit down on one of the deck chairs not far from the cat, but not close either. I don’t offer to pet him, but he purrs anyway.

And that’s the thing. He purrs anyway.

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