Sunset years

Harry The Tuxedo Cat

He’s feral, but he’s friendly

By the author

If I could speak your language for a day, there’s much I’d like to say. My name is Harry, as you call me, though in cat tongue it’s a purr that vibrates just right against the whiskers.

I wasn’t born surrounded by human hands. The wild field where I was born taught me caution, taught me survival. But your home, with its steady meals and gentle voices, taught me something else — trust, perhaps. Not complete, mind you. A feral cat never fully surrenders his independence. It’s written in our whiskers. It’s coded in our midnight prowls.

I come to your door precisely when I mean to. Not because I’m desperate, you understand, but because we’ve formed an arrangement. You fill the bowl, I grace you with my presence. It’s a fair exchange. Your punctuality is appreciated. My internal clock is impeccable — I know breakfast is at 5 AM and dinner at 6 PM. I’m never late, though sometimes I arrive early just to ensure you haven’t forgotten your duties.

That sliding glass door you call “Cat TV”? I find the name amusing, though not inaccurate. You humans are peculiar creatures. The way you move about your indoor territory, engaging in mysterious rituals with your strange objects — it’s better entertainment than stalking leaves in the wind. Sometimes I…