Monday, June 23, 2014
Tom belongs to the next-door neighbor. Tom is outdoors a lot, and for the most part he prefers our yard to his own. I don't much mind this so long as he is merely resting, not trampling, mind you, amongst the flowers. There he is in a bare spot in front of our foundation and behind the columbines.
Certain of his behaviors are less benign, yet he is usually circumspect. Tom is not friendly, but neither is he aggressive. I can sweet-talk him so long as I stay at least six feet distant from him. An inch closer, however, and Tom is like the kitty in the old country song, a couple of lines of which say, He's movin' on, he's movin' on. He ripped a stitch when he hit the ditch, and he's movin' on.
We, the cat and I, have an accommodation. I tolerate him, and he doesn't demand title to the property he co-opts.