Barb calls my cell instead of my house phone nowadays. I'm not sure of the reason but I see her number come up and I answer. She calls to rant sometimes but other times it is to report something big, like a current emergency that she's just called the police regarding.
"Do any of you over there own a black and gray striped tabby, little thing?" is her opening sentence. The cat is in her bathroom now. Just walked right in her back door when she came home from her walk.
There are certain strays I know around here--obviously Woolly Bear, and his sometimes-friend Tex (see, he looks like Blackjack, but bigger...so we named him Texas Hold'Em). There's a smallish tuxedo kitty that has shown up recently, and I don't think the one that looks like my Bleys is around anymore, which is sad because it means he had a short hard life, but good for my psyche because every time I saw him outside I panicked and thought it was my naive fluffy orange thing lost outside.
But no tiny black and gray tabby.
"Have you called Jen?" I ask her. Jen runs a cat rescue organization and also keeps close tabs on the strays around here. She had--she was waiting for a call back.
"If you could ask around, I'd appreciate it," she tells me.
So I go to the fish fry.
On the way home, she calls again. She was heading over to Jen's because she has a microchip reader, in case the cat was chipped.
"Can I cut through your backyard?" she asks. I can tell by the way she asks that she's already in my backyard. Ah well. See, Barb is a horticulturist or something like that. She works with plants, does landscaping, and my yard? Not.
"Ok, but be gentle--I just started tearing the place up again."
"Oh, don't worry about it. My backyard is all mud right now. Which one is Jen's house?"
I point her in the right direction using landmarks. All our houses look alike.
Don't know how the cat turned out. She didn't call back, so I assume good news.
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