Fourteen years ago in winter, Snowball broke into our house. No – really. It had been bitter weather, and he had been hanging around our porch, probably because it afforded some shelter from the miserable cold, semi-enclosed as it was. I had started leaving some food out for him when it became obvious that he was sticking around more than part time. He had a red flea collar at first, and no tags, and no one on the block knew whose cat he was, if he was anyone’s at all – I didn’t feel bad about feeding him even a little bit. He was such a scrawny little bit of a thing.
My mom was up from FL to visit that week, and Our Man Cub was almost two years old. We had gone grocery shopping one evening and were sitting down in the living room after putting things away. Then I turned my head, and there he was, sitting on the back of the couch like he’d lived there all the time and we’d just never noticed. Well, hello you.
And it’s like this: the temps were sub-zero, and I couldn’t bring myself to send him back out. And Dearest Will was in New York that week, when we got the news that our friend Pat Storm had passed away in Thompkins Square Park. And Our Man Cub was really but a squirrely kit then, and my mother was in town, and really? The last thing on my mind was putting an animal back out into the cold.
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