The Amateur

I had never paid much attention to Martha's cat.

The cat ate from a convenient plastic box of dry cat food that acted as an ever-filled dispenser of manna from some indifferent god. It had the run of the yard, entering and exiting from a perpetually open small window in the bathroom, whose screen had been long ago removed for that purpose.

The cat's life seemed as painfully dull as my own; even more so as recent events had provided such contrast.

I rummaged around in the pantry, and found a can of white albacore. I pet the cat as it ate. Somehow it managed to purr and eat at the same time.

It slept on the covers between my feet that night, still purring.