Of Cats and Kings

"The cat comes in on little fog feet..." Or is it the other way around? (my apologies to Carl Sandburg)

There is this cat who thinks he belongs to me. He has a perfectly good home, yard and presumably litter box, but abandons them on the slightest whim to prowl my yard. As cats go, he's really rather handsome--white with black splotches and a vaguely cross-eyed look.

Promptly at 6 p.m. every evening, a face appears pressed up against the patio doors. After casing the joint, he silently pads across the concrete and meanders on over to the herb garden. Mint really is irresistible, you know...

A few sniffs later, a roll or two in the grass, and he's ready to get down to serious business--making the daily deposit. He half-heartedly scratches the soil in a useless attempt to cover up the evidence, but after years of escaping punishment, really does not make an effort.

My backyard has become a no-man's-land -- no birds, no squirrels, no critters -- only Mr. Puss-in-Boots. I miss the birdcalls in the morning and the crazy antics of squirrels running along the fence.

Maybe that cute little Rottweiler puppy for sale was a good idea after all...