Susan and I went on a chilly walk the other day. The wind was stiff and I trotted along diligently, head down, ears back. I like walks, of course. But I was happy enough to turn back towards home.
We've passed this mailbox hundreds of times. It makes me smile to think of people putting things inside a cat. Like stuffing.
And, as any Minnesotan knows, anything on a stick is more fun.
But today, this kitschy mailbox was unsettling. Maybe it was the flat, cold gray of the day echoed in the gray metal stripes. Or the catbox's discontented, slightly crazed gaze. Yellow eyes followed me as I hurried past. I could feel the malevolence of this cat trapped, stripped of dignity, and forced to perform such an un-feline task for all eternity.
Really, I think my discomfort was probably just the combination of two of my less-favorite things in the world: mail and cat.
Mailman approaches my place EVERYDAY and EVERYDAY I have to drive him away. Except for Sundays because on Saturdays I am extra stern. He's a cheeky fellow though. Each time he leaves behind a little pile of scented paper to taunt me. Smells like cigarettes and smugness.
My less than favorable view of cats needs no explanation. They are just plain creepy and they get away with things I would never dream of doing.
OK. So maybe I dream.
