I wish he was a Perfect Silence.

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

W. Whitman

——

This little bugger. I call him Dodger. He yowls (!) when he finds it necessary to visit (Day or night, the little fucker.). He’s picky about cat kibble; he prefers the chicken that I’ve left in the fridge for a *little* too long. (He snacks on garbage in the street, so I envy his gastrointestinal prowess.)

He’s the once and future king of this particular block, leaping and skirting from house to house. I’ve checked around. There’s a 12-year-old human who knows him, at the corner. And who knows his clan — Dodger comes with his shy brother Oliver; his mom, Fagan; and his dad, Jaggers.

(These names are not official, as they are not my cats. They belong to the world. Apologies, also, to fans of Dickens. I know it mixed Oliver Twist with Great Expectations. But it felt right.)

I used to have pets. And I loved them deeply, and I miss them. But one thing that Mexico has taught me, and there are a lot of things that Mexico has taught me, is that I don’t actually know if I fancy the idea of ever owning a pet again.

Call this block some sort of mini-Istanbul, but one of its defining characteristics is this little band of feline rebels, who strut around from house to house, living as they please, on the kindness of strangers.

I was convinced that they were the property of the woman who lives in the red house, three doors down. I saw them in her little alleyway. I bumped into her at the corner store, and she informed me that they are not her cats, either.

Nobody knows where these cats came from, and to the best of my knowledge, nobody owns them. They live, they thrive, they survive. They sing for their supper (especially Dodger, who I think is the frontman of the group).

Absolutely zero shade to pet owners. I will only say that I find there to be a profound sense of romance surrounding the notion that one day, maybe, I will live in a house with a little dog-door, and there will be some street-mutt named “Lucky,” who pops on-through whenever he deemes it appropriate. Maybe he hangs around for a couple of days. Maybe he lounges around on the couch. Maybe he smells like shit, and I need to go ahead and give him a bath, a flea-and-tick treatment, a few square meals, and then we cuddle on the couch watching Russ Meyer flicks, and then one day, he gives me a look that says “Welp! I’m gonna head out again. Maybe I’ll see you later.“

And maybe I will, and maybe I will welcome his return. And? Maybe I won’t. That’s his choice, and it’s his life.

Street dogs are usually careful here. Darwin would have something to say about that. Still, I’ve been there when a couple of these little guys have taken their last breath. There’s nothing quite like the shrillness that goes up the spine, quite as much as that high-pitched yelp when a fender hits at 60 kilometers an hour. Cuts deep.

But maybe, if Lucky doesn’t come back, he just found himself a better setup. Whether it’s just a new neighborhood, or he’s living on that farm, upstate, where you get to eat hot dogs, every day.

For now, there’s Dodger and his crew. Stupid little reminders that consistency can be a tincture to being a curmudgeon. In exchange, they get some food and keep the mice at bay. A shining lil’ star. A perfect lil’ silence.