War All the Time, Indeed

I may not be Bukowski, but I do have one similarity with that drunken old typer.

Sitting on my porch Monday evening, I glanced across the yard to see a thin cat with no tail in sight climb into view. Being the child of my father, I called to it and it came running.

Three days later, he hasn't left, and I'm falling in love with him.

The first night, he rubbed up against my back and I didn't think much when he disappeared.

No sooner had I flicked the lighter on Tuesday evening did he appear in the exact same spot as before. I realized how thin he was when I rubbed my hand across his side and felt like I'd scraped a washboard.

Mother looked out the window and disapproved. Rashka spent the entire night in a jealous rage.

This morning, he was waiting for me when I walked out. He laid belly up on my lap and pawed at the smoke rings.

I have no need for a cat. I have no place to put this tail free phenomenon. My animals are all furious at me, not to mention my mother, who tells me every chance she gets that rabies is on the way.

But when an animal that has probably never been held tries to bury itself in your arms and cries, its impossible to not understand how everything on earth needs touch.

There's a stray on my porch tonight, curled up in a bunch of old towels at the base of the top stair. He's sleeping where I sat after I heard about the nonexistence of that red haired mother, where every year until I ran away I sat and mourned the passing of childhood into a letter.

Tomorrow, if he's not gone, I'm giving him a name.

And names never leave.