The Wrong Kind of Cat

The rough and tumble Alley cat, the short haired Heinz 57, the sneaky Siamese. I've met a few cats in my day but none quite measured up.

The boys are busy at the fish plant across the street. Trucks of all sizes pulling in, pulling out, reversing, braking, parking. Bianca's Dream will be making her way through the harbour later this evening. Dodging the bergs to dock after 2 days away. He'll unload his catch, get paid, pay his crew and jump in his pick-up. Maybe he'll look my way, see if I'm watching from the window, see if I'm watching for him. He might consider phoning me then, maybe even stop by but ultimately decide to wait until after he's had a good home cooked meal and a shower, only then will he call to let me know he made it home safe.

He's a good cat, no doubt about it. The kind of cat that will sit in your lap for hours purring loudly, kneading gently but plays it safe (would never catch him climbing to the highest branch of a evergreen). He knows when to keep his distance (would never push too hard or pull too close - he may, however, squeeze a little too tight).

Unfortunately, he's the wrong kind of cat for me.