“He’s not a bad cat,” I said, as the cat approached. Do that with Pumpkin, and ten seconds later he’d be purring at your feet, only too glad to have you pet him with your not-actually-holding-food hand. I made the “psst-psst” sound even louder, and pretended to dip one hand into the other, then place something presumably yummy into my mouth. But, as the cat clicked closer-one of his rear legs tapered to a wooden peg that clicked atop the asphalt-I saw that his teeth were preternaturally large and that his left ear was held together by what seemed to be industrial staples and barbed wire.īut I wouldn’t let up. “Psst-psst! Here kitty!” But the moment I said it, I noticed the weeds and sticks and briars clinging to the cat’s underbelly. I crouched to the ground and made eye contact with the cat. This time of evening, the light was soft, perfect. The walk had been her idea: we’d take a nice selfie of us walking in the neighborhood and then post it when we got home. She’d been checking out her new iPhone for the past few minutes. “He’s not going to be happy,” my daughter said. “Dad,” my daughter said, “don’t trick him.” The cat blinked his eyes once more at me, and stood. “Psst-psst! Here kitty! Hungry for a little snack?” “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, and lowered my hand to the ground, as if I were cradling food, a trick from my childhood that had never failed to lure our cat, Pumpkin, out from beneath my bed. “Plus,” my son said, “I think there’s something wrong with that cat.”
“ Dad ,” my daughter said, “don’t do that.” The cat blinked at us for a moment, curiously-pleasantly, I thought. When my family and I walked past, the cat yawned and stretched his tongue the way cats sometimes do. He had gray fur, slightly mottled with black, and white paws.
He was lying on our neighbor’s driveway, sunning himself in the last of the day’s warmth.
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