Cat House

There's a house in my neighborhood famous for its many cats: feral, rescued, kitten and Tom. 12, 20, 24; lounging on pillows strewn across the extended drive where I can peek between California oaks and an ivy-covered fence. This morning I watched the Lady of the house leave. Snow White hair, a navy woolen coat. She got into a fancy car and drove off in a stately fashion. I waved, but she either ignored me or didn't see as she kept looking straight ahead. I imagine that to her, Henry and I are just two more cats seeking the communion of our feline fellows.... Henry is especially curious, being a dog and all. Who are these creatures, his size and sense of aloofness, feigned disinterest with eyes in the back if their heads? Such mystery permeates the air where I see my exhalations whisk in ghostly tails.