The Porch Cat

The cat sits in the light of the moon and watches the street. He is careful, quiet, and orange; he is 68 in human years. He lives on a big covered porch on the side of an old brick house in a small river town. He has been here as long as he can remember. He can hear the barge skimming by late in the night and does not know what beast makes the sound, only that it is one of the many sounds carried up from the river.

He ventured down to the river once, long ago, to seek the source of the low and lonely hum in the night. He made it across the street, down a block, across another street, and down another block. He then only had to cross one more street, the one that ran along the water. As he moved his front paw to cross the last street from the sidewalk, he heard a distant growling sound and hesitated. He stiffened his back into an arch and listened.

The growl became louder, until he could see the dark shape of a metal beast on wheels, the same kind of beast his family climbed into when they left, and got out of when they returned, the loud thing that took them places on its rolling wheels. But this one was much bigger, and longer, and louder. As it approached the noise became unbearable and he could feel the vibrations from its belly in his teeth, fangs, and bones. He turned and raced all the way back home, scrabbled up the three stairs to his porch and into his warm, dark cat bed. His curiosity faded that night; he would never again seek the secrets of the river.

The cat knows he is not the same type of beast as his family, the tall, mostly hairless two-legged beasts that live in the old house attached to his porch. He knows he is a "kitty", because all the two-legged beasts call him that when they walk by. They like to run their paws across the fur on his back and scratch his head. He lets them because they are usually kind, and his own two-legged family brings him water and food.

Besides the two-legged beasts, there are others who visit, mostly at night. There are the fat, bushy-tailed beasts, the long-nosed, skinny-tailed beasts, and, at all hours, the beasts who accompany the two-legged ones, who bark and strain at the cords that are attached to them, but are hardly ever able to come near.

Then there are the beasts who are like him. They are the only ones who hurt him with sharp teeth and claws. They are all potential enemies, and he watches for the kitty beasts each night. He must defend his porch. He has been here as long as he can remember.

The cat hears a muffled screech from the alley, where there is an old carriage house. This is the sound of the feathered beast who flies, and swoops down, and takes the tiniest beasts from the grass behind the house. He has seen it twice. It is not his enemy. At his age, the cat has lost interest in hunting.

The cat rises, stretches, and silently pads through the moonlight and shadows to his warm bed. There is no threat, and nothing to keep him from sleep tonight. The barn owl calls and the river barge hums as his eyes slowly narrow to slits, then close.