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I
grew up in a dog household. Our only cat, an embattled and tough old
tom, named Rusty, spent most of his time out of doors and judging
from his constant wounds, I'm sure he was a womanizer and an
aggressor. During the worst of the New England winters, he would
come inside and sleep in front of the fire but he was never lovable
or particularly friendly. Still, once I left home, it was a kitten
and not a puppy I longed for and since then there have been so many
of both that I've lost count. I would give my life for my dogs but
there's a certain symmetry about beginning and ending life with a
cat, particularly a black cat.
A
squirrel darting through the crepe myrtles outside catches his
attention and with a squeak of protest, my passive, sleepy and
stretched out cat turns into an instant predator. He rushes the
windows, all teeth and claws, chattering like an anxious monkey and
startling the dogs into a surprised and over loud panic. Noise and
all, the squirrel is unimpressed. He sits calmly, watching all this
sound and fury and swishing his tail vigorously though whether from
bordom or defiance I can't be sure.
After
a time, the squirrel moves on, the dogs quiet down, and the cat loses
interest. It's a lot like life.
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