OnDusk

I don’t mind how strange I seem when I answer the door. It’s my place. I didn't know the woman at the door in dove grey exercise gear and a worried expression. 'Do you have a cat?' I knew and she could clearly see that there were three bowls of cat food, a pet box and a cosy cardboard box of cat bed proportions that contained a floofed-up Qantas blanket. 'No. I don’t…have a cat.' Her story was a short one. She’d moved in to #3 earlier in the week and by late Friday afternoon was door knocking trying to locate the owner of a deceased cat she had driven past on the front steps of #2. I live at #5. The end of the line with the largest most glorious expanse of concrete I’ve ever had the pleasure of calling my front yard.   A fringe of tiers of manicured shrubbery reaching to the windows surrounds the property. I explained I fed the occasional stray cat from the vacant lot over the fence. It's true they did occasionaly go for a stroll alo...