"I don't talk to you, Cat"

We call her Ashes. We don't know where her real home is, but it mustn't be far. We see her nearly every day. When we exit the house in the morning, she's often curled up in our flower bed. When we return from a ride, she sees our car and trots up. Such eagerness for our company warms my heart. For indeed it must be ourselves that she loves. We never feed her. I pat her and say, "Hello, pretty girl. It's good to see you. You are a wonderful creation of God." Hubby is briefer. He says, "I don't talk to you, Cat. I don't talk to cats." Let me hasten to add: his tone is warm and there's a twinkle in his eye. He doesn't gush over her (that wouldn't be manly), but he is the one who named her Ashes. I'm sure she has another name, and I'm sure I don't want to know it. Perhaps such an elegant lady with amazing icy-green eyes deserves a more exotic moniker. But Ashes is what the fellow with twinkly eyes named her, without hesitation, almost as if he had received a divine revelation. So it's fine with me.

     And it's fine with us that our silver friend continues to visit, asking for nothing but a few strokes and a few words, even if the words are only "I don't talk to you, Cat."