there at the turnstile

July 1, 2016

Aw, man.

In some ways I am going to be goggle eyed with ecstasy when I finally get out of this mousetrap of a neighborhood; and in some ways I am going to be so sad.

From the moment in spring that it is just a little too cold to be doing it, I start leaving the front door open when I work from home. Lucky sits in the doorway, to keep out the riff-raff and to generally survey the goings on in her domain.

All spring long and now into summer, there has gone by each morning a stumbling, lisping, drunken bit of humanity, probably about to have his second birthday any time now. All spring long he has stopped toddling and squealed ‘kitty!’ as he passes our house, and his parents, although they initially tried to hurry him along, have at this point fully bought into it.

One morning when they went by I was working in the craft room instead of the living room, and Lucky was supervising my progress. I heard them toddle by, and a desolate little ‘kitty…?’ My heart cracked and I grabbed up her supremeness, which by the way she hates and she totally gouged me for, and bundled her to her spot at the door. Tears were forestalled. I made a new friend of a parent for life.

Today the whole family went by, and as usual, stopped for a few minutes for the following conversation.


‘Yay, it’s the kitty! You love the kitty. Hi, kitty!’

‘Kitty! Amigo!’

‘Yeah, the kitty is your amigo, huh? Ok, bye, kitty!’

‘Bye kitty! Bye amigo!’

I am going to have to leave a toy kitty or something in the garden for him when we move.

I am


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