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Looking out my backdoor: Looking for love in all the wrong places

 


He’s not feral. I assume the stranger is a him. He’s not a rack of bones. He yowled around beneath my bedroom windows three nights before I glimpsed him in his white coat with yellow patches. Voice like a diesel tractor with defective brakes.

I know why he’s hanging out in the neighborhood. Janet, my next door neighbor, just a few feet over that-away, brought five felines (all fixed) with her when she and Tom moved here from Washington a few months ago to become more-or-less permanent residents. This intruder sniffs the presence of these fur-lined new-comers, tucked into their beds...



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