The cat showed up the summer before last. A petite calico with a lopped-off tail and round, startled eyes—one look at the hard green of them was evidence enough that she’d never been touched. Her fear of us was so intense it was frightening. But I liked her, I thought her spots were pretty, and so I let her lick our empty tuna cans. Over time she gave up slinking away and began to linger on the patio near my chair, lounging on her side or having a bath in the sun. Even if she was still too feral to touch, I liked that in some vague way she felt like mine.
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