One nippy evening in Brooklyn, I was preparing for my first-ever dinner party when I heard a meow. This was not unusual – between my ex and me, we had three cats, and meows abounded. But I knew all of their meows, and this one did not belong to any of them.
I looked down from my factory windows to see a small, raggledy cat sitting on the sidewalk. He saw me, and began to turn in circles and jump, as if he intended to leap straight into my second-floor loft. I left the cooling ceviche and went downstairs with a can of tuna. Five minutes later, we had a new, eight-month-old cat. I named him Harper, because, as he has demonstrated every day since his arrival, Harper’s bizarre.
When (now-)Husband and I drove across the country together a year later, Harper and Gawain came with us. Gawain settled right into life in L.A., but Harper, not so much. He hated the weather. He hated our apartment. He hated not having any girl cats to fondle inappropriately. After six weeks of his moaning, complaining, and assaulting the furniture, my mother came to visit. When she left, she took him with her. He was very happy to move somewhere with not one, but two female cats, as well as a dog for him to scorn utterly.
And this is the nose of Rusty, who is not scorned by anyone. Rusty belongs to Husband’s sister. Rusty likes Thanksgiving, because he gets his own little plate full of scraps of turkey, stuffing, potatoes and pie. Rusty’s not spoiled at all.