Last night, in the dark hours between moonset and sunrise, I was awakened by the unmistakable sound of cats fighting. Fearing for Henry, I peered into the darkness. I couldn’t see a thing. Unsettled, I went back to bed and read the new Michael Connelly until I felt ready to sleep again.
I woke up a couple of hours later with the wind howling. Palm leaves rattled, the windows shook in their 85 year old wooden frames. Going out to pick up the newspaper, I expected to be greeted by a full-blown winter storm. I was amazed to see the clear blue sky, the horizon an opalescent pink. It was as balmy as a summer day. The newspaper had blown across the street.
Paper in hand, I went to check on Henry. He came running out to meet me, saying good morning and leading me to his bowls. The water dish was full of dirt, and the little tent I got him to shelter in when it rains was collapsed against the fence instead of under the porch. Its faux sheepskin lining was nowhere to be seen.
On closer examination, the tent had deep bite and claw marks in the fabric, and was either blood- or dirt-stained. Henry, however, appears to be unscathed, and happily ate his breakfast as if nothing had happened. You should see the other guy, he seemed to be saying.