The evening was cool and the streets were still. Roger sat silently atop a heap of deformed cardboard boxes, his gaze fixed on an owner picking through garbage some distance from him. Roger never understood or appreciated the value of bottles despite the profound interest by the owners. Bottles are difficult to grip, inedible, too geometric, and often make frightenly loud noises when dropped. They lack the reciprication when pawing, a trait favoured in mice and birds. Yet, to Rogers persistent amazement, the owners were facinated with them, collected them, even fought for them.
Roger lept gracefully from the boxes onto the cool concreate ground. This was the best time of day. The usual bustling activity of the city was muted creating an environment ripe for scavanging and exploring.
Roger stalked down the concreate path. This location, between two steel monoliths, had proven fruitful in the past. The owners, in spite of their penchant for inedible bottles, frequently tossed spicey treats through large doors onto the streets. However, it was no easy pickings by any means. Dogs, mice, birds, and other cats would gather and fight over the owners gift.
Roger knew some of the cats, many of them local, but none worthy of company. A few were travelers who had owners. They stuck out from the rest: clean, well groomed, often flaunting impressive furs, yet a prissy and distasteful attitude. Roger desired them, wanted to be them, he wanted to be
owned. He often watched owned cats and relished their lifestyles; playing with mice and birds all day without feeling the need to eat, but instead presenting them as gifts to the owners; small owners cuddling and petting, not throwing stones. Maybe one day, such a scenerio would come true for Roger.
Roger gracefully makes a bend bearing towards the end of the alley where the metal food door lay in wait, cracked open. A thin stream of light was cast on the cement below illuminating treats. Roger's heart beating ever faster, his mouth salivating ever more with each approaching paw. It had occured to Roger that obtaining treats recently had been easier and easier. There were less dogs and fellow cats to fight with in past days, not that it was a concern to Roger, after all he was fit and very sneaky.
Tonight something was amiss though.
The treats were arranged in a tidy fashion, not splayed randomly everywhere like what was common. What really stood out was the presence of the door owner who stood silently against the wall, an empty bag in hand.
Roger thought nothing else of it, the spicey treats were too enticing. Besides, maybe the owner would offer a pet, maybe a toy.
Roger descended upon the spicey treats, his second last meal.
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The McNabb's were a middle class, hardworking family with two beautiful, smart children. Michael, the youngest, was entitled to a dinner on the town from his parents (which he rightfully accepted) due to his diligence and hard work in english class - he wrote a poem entitled
The nine lives of cats: The dog years which he recieved an A- on. From the multitude of potential resturants, Michael chose
Wing Tan's fine Chinese, his favorite.
The ginger beef arrived late, sparking disapproval and a rude remark from the father, Frank, towards the server. However, it was transitory and the family cheer quickly returned to base line. Michael enjoyed the ginger beef, although rather chewy and of odd consitency, he was in too good a mood to led that get to him.
The McNabb's didn't tip.
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It looks like Roger the stray cat found a loving and caring family after all.
