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.