"I wonder if he's still around," Scott said, talking about the tomcat he'd brought home and released into the barn. It had been living at someone else's farmyard that was being overrun by cats, while here we had none.
Although he had allowed Scott to pet him when the cage door was opened, he'd soon dashed into the barn's shadowy regions and that was the last he'd been seen. Scott put food and water out every day, and it seemed to be consumed in part, but the cat didn't come when called, and kept out of sight.
One night we'd been out somewhere and pulled into the driveway after dark, and there he was; it was my first glimpse of him, scampering away from the headlights and into the bush at the side of the road.
"You weren't kidding when you said he looks rough," I remarked. The cat is a persian whose hair had clumped up so badly that it looked like he was wearing a saddle slipped down on one side of his body.
The other morning I caught sight of him across the yard, patiently stalking something in the long grass. The saddle of hair is gone, leaving a patch of bare skin. But he's doing his job, this tomcat: hunting rodents and squirrels, we hope, and not birds and baby rabbits.
I love it that you can meet cousins out of the blue. I am close to most of my cousins but see few of them as we're spread across Canada and the US. We stay close with Facebook, and had stayed close before that because we were willing letter-writers. I cherish them.
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