White Cat

It stalks our neighborhood, day or night.  It slips into our back yards, stares into our windows, silently mocks us while laying claim to our street and all who dwell on it. 

It rules, and it knows it. 

White Cat. 

"There's White Cat," I announced the other day solemnly. "On our driveway. He's back."

Our dogs leapt up, rushed to the window, then whined and howled like tortured souls at the final reckoning.  

White Cat looked up, yawned, turned tail and slowly walked away.    

White Cat is, as you'd expect, white.  It arrived in our midst when one of the neighbors saved it from the pound.  Yet, the cat never warmed to the family, nor the family to it.  So the neighbors now keep enough food and water in a slightly opened garage so the cat can come and go as it pleases. 

And it does.  As it pleases. 

"What's its name, by the way?" I once asked the neighbor, adding, "We call it White Cat."  

"Yep, that's the name," she said.  "That's what we call it, too.  White Cat."  So does everyone in the neighborhood. 

It's a wonderful name, really.  Descriptive of color and species, sure.  But beyond that, impersonal, unemotional, one-dimensional ... an enigma, like the cat.  It is so unlike our dogs' names, which are rich in promise and spirit: Linus! the lionhearted, Riley! the rambunctious.

White Cat.  Dry Toast.

We've all attempted to befriend it.  We try to coax, to coddle, to make clumsy "mew" sounds in hopes of some psychological connection.  But White Cat is both elusive and bored.  When it sees us, it prefers to look at us from a distance.  Not out of fear, I think. More snobbery. 

I'm no great lover of cats.  We used to have one named Zeeck.  He was a good cat.  He and my dog, then an Irish Setter named Amy, were tolerable friends. Zeeck, too, was an independent sort.  He also grew too fat. But Zeeck had spirit, and charm.  We'd put a leash on Zeeck and take him for walks and he'd cooperate ... sort of.

White Cat, I think, would like to put a leash on me. 

It may not be fair, though, to say that White Cat is friends to no one. At least of late.

Just two doors to the west of us lives Dick.  Dick is long retired, a widower, and is an enigma of sorts as well.  He's a quiet guy, and seems to spend his days permanently bent over, picking up sticks in his yard. 

But Dick is a treasure. Each morning for more than a decade, before the sun rises, Dick methodically walks from house to house.  He grabs each newspaper left on the lawn or driveway and takes it up to each door -- in our case, our garage door.  

Bleary-eyed neighbors holding shaky coffee cups merely have to inch open the door, reach down and bring the newspaper to the warmth inside.  (We open the garage door just wide enough for our fingers to grab the newspaper's plastic bag.)

Dick never misses a morning.  Never. His picture should be on the wall in the back room of every U.S. Post Office, next to President Obama's, with the words: 

"Don't Be A Weanie. He Delivers Every Day, And So Should You."

It seems that White Cat has warmed to Dick, and Dick to White Cat. In fact, rumor has it that White Cat now has an alternative home in Dick's garage, and Dick provides food. 

Even more startling, White Cat will come to Dick when called and will actually purr while rubbing against Dick's leg. Like cats are supposed to do.

I've not seen it, so I don't yet believe it. But it does make sense. White Cat goes from house to house.  Dick goes from house to house.  Two quiet guys.  Two kindred spirits. Two keen observers of our collective lives on 80th Terrace.

Yep, I suspect they know us intimately.  I suspect they compare notes ... and quietly chuckle.