The Little Cat Sits Facing Forward, Resembling A Ball Of Fluff

Baldy

Cat portrait, c. 1860s

@importantcatpics

Cat resting on a cross of Orthodox church in Perast, Montenegro.

/ᐠ • ˕ - ﾏ ♡

Mrs. Andrews was a lovely lady, elder, in her late 60s, but full of a vibrancy that was catching. Eternally bubbly, charming and sweet. Her salt and pepper hair was more on the peppery side during this time of her life, but it didn’t seem to phase her that she was getting older, she had an easy smile and energy to rival the first-grade students she taught. At the beginning of summer, but the end of the school year, she would invite the children and families of each of her classes over to her house for an evening of strawberry shortcake as part of a meet-and-greet and celebration all the kids made it through their first full year of school. She had a swimming pool where the kids could play, but it was raining the whole week during this particular class party. It was a pretty summer night, even with the rain. The rain was off and on, sprinkling. Sometimes the stars would peek out from the clouds. It was dark enough at night in the countryside that you could see the milkyway, at least that’s what she said. We would take her word for it, considering the rain.

Her house had a wide, long porch that was free from railing, just two steps up along the entirety. It was a very old, one story ranch house from a time when people built houses without electricity. There were windows all along the house, low and large, with those somewhat small square panes of glass that were hand poured and sized out of necessity for easier shipment during rough travel That evening the house was lit up with a warm glow, she had drawn the long curtains open, for easier location. The front and back doors were open, along with some of the windows which opened outward, diagonally, like in old movies. When people drove up to her place, on crunchy gravel that had half way worn to dirt-now-mud in the rain, it would still feel inviting. Perhaps more so due to the remoteness of her place. An oasis of warmth, way out in the country, somewhere among tall wheat and corn. You could smell the sweetgrass of her freshly cut lawn that evening, and see the people inside milling about and mingling. The house had that warm wood color on most things, and cream colored walls, lots of pictures that seemed blurry in the golden light. Kids were running around the outside, and darting between the front porch and the back porch which had the pool. I nearly was stepped on a few times, but darted between feet and under chair legs to avoid them.

In spite of the rain, the pool still was lit and that pretty aqua color in the night. Steam rose from it in little tufts, chlorinated water prickled with little splashes from the raindrops. The metal slide dripped rainwater into the pool in a steady stream, alone and unused in the rainy night. The evening was winding down when I awoke from my nap. The scent of strawberries from her garden on the lips and fingers of every child, and on the door jambs, counters and... and my long, grey fur. I meowed loudly at that, when someone tried to pick me up. I remember Mrs. Andrews laughing good-naturedly. That night I had some tuna, as a treat. Her house, like her, felt ancient and solid. Like a fixed point in time underneath the stars. I don't doubt there was some magic in that house. That warm, welcoming kind, where you could feel there was a lot of care and love inside. It lingered in every floorboard, seeped into the plaster and was reflected on each windowpane.

Lucie Spartacus linogravures