Now that she is the only cat, Sugar's diet is less diverse than it was when she could share a can with Sunni, and I know she won't be pleased with the remains of the same food she had this morning. In the kitchen, she hops onto a chair and watches me fill a dish. I place it on the floor, and she jumps down to sniff it, then gives me that look. Then she goes off to eat some of the dry food in her other bowl. Spoiled kitty. She might put her hunting skills to use and have something fresh if she would catch whatever rodent is still making holes in the front yard. Or, she could rid me of that katydid. But she is a cat who is independent in all things save feeding. She might not be interested in human laps, but our skill with opening tins she considers proof of our obligation to provide her with an ample supply of all the delicacies to which she is entitled by virtue of her willingness to tolerate our presence in her house; Salmon, for example, or some beef, flavored with a bit of the liver. She must be disgusted with my failings as a servant.
After the cat is unfed to her dissatisfaction, I go out to enjoy the full darkness. The katydid is still at it, and the moon is now hiding among the pine branches. The breeze has stiffened a bit, the air is cooler and fresher, and the parchment effect of the sky is barely discernable. The town has not yet fallen silent. An engine roars and tires squeal as some impatient motorist rushes from some nearby side street into the main road. I wonder where there is to rush to in this fading world?
