Cat and the credit line
THE high finance of modern living might be amusing, and whilst sorting some leftovers from 1987, and before going to the dump, I found a check for $1,000, payable to my order, and I kicked up my heels and shouted goody-goody so the cat came from under the shop stove and climbed the broom handle onto the band saw. This is not my cat. I have no idea whose cat it is. It has one blue eye and one green eye and a yank in the tail that suggests it failed, at least once, to pass before the door shut.
I am not addicted to cats, being leery from memories from long ago when one disliked me. That one was a she, and she'd lurk in wait behind the grain chest and attack me when I dipped provender for Bossy. She'd come out with a snarl and climb my overalls, wreaking havoc en route, and in utter astonishment I'd naturally presume the Comanches had struck again.
I never did get used to her, and kind as I was in word and deed she persisted in disliking me until I moped a good deal and people thought I had a secret disturbance. But there was nothing secret about her attacks. She'd howl when she struck so people away down the road would cock a head and say, ``There she goes again!''
So, in my present disposition and location I was not bothered by any thoughts that I should possess a cat. Some nine miles from me, and on the other side of the Meduncook River, is a woman who loves cats very much, and I permit her to exercise surrogate affection on my behalf - she loves cats enough for everybody. But I hasten to add that I am not disturbed by her peculiarity, and take no stand one way or the other if the question is politely put. I add that so people who like cats will understand and not unreasonably accuse me of a disingratiating attitude. I think the very fact that I let this two-eyed cat into my shop is good proof that I have my better side.