Snow falling on deaf ears
There was a sign on the bayou – that read YOU WANT THIS CAT! – and went on to describe a rare type of Siamese cat that had been rescued in the storm and who had orange tip markings. I told T – she said check him out – and so I went to check him out. But something about everything wasn’t right – I had shades of Rusty when I saw him – the orange tabby that ripped me to shreds and scared the holy shit out of me when I took him while I was living at the Can – and although Snow did finally warm up to me a bit after sitting and waiting, I never could get passed his slanted distrustful eyes. Or maybe it was the beer on the breath of the owner. Or perhaps the way Snow’s white fur came off in clumps as the owner rubbed him, littering the hardwood floor in the foyer with piles that grew to tumbleweeds in no time. Or maybe it was the way the back story never aligned – that the owner couldn’t have cats in the apartment – but turns out he has another cat that doesn’t get along with Snow – or that he had a posse of feral cats with his girlfriend uptown but now he is here with what? one feral cat? two feral cats? A couple of cats and a penchant for beer before noon? Or maybe it was his desire for us to be buddies – to network since we are both writers – something about the encounter seemed to make me recoil as if it would all end messy if I stayed one more minute.