What is it about those stinky old cat people? The greasy hair and the button-up shirts mismatched to their hammer pants. When I first moved to Kansas City, I leased the quaintest of radiantly heated treehouse apartments, complete with a solarium and black/white checkered bathroom tile. That dear old place was ancient in the best way. Also ancient were its solid wooden entry doors, much like shoving a cow to open. My mind boggled each time I saw the bitty gray-hair from the fourth floor out walking, daily at that. She'd never share an elevator, slinking back to the shadows. Nor, would she speak a word. Philly always referred to her as, "The LaaAady From Flooooor Fourrr," as if introducing a ghost story. I mean, how on planet Earth did Miss Mini-thing muscle the door open everyday?
I actually saw her the other day, milling about my former grounds- business as usual. My heart swelled.
I took my little nanny feller to see Lyle the Crocodile at Crown Center's Coterie Theatre yesterday. It was a total hit. (Today he was home, sick from school. So naturally, we wrote and illustrated a "non-fiction" book about yesterday, a more fun day than today. -His words, not mine.) Anyway, Lyle is a crocodile that lives in the bathtub of an NYC apartment and becomes friends with a young boy. But really, who gives a rat's turd about the dancing crocodile? Mr. Grumps with the archetypal greasy gray hair and his beloved cat puppet (which the small fry thought was real, oooh kids!)... now that is a character I can get behind.
P.S. The ruler of our roost is back after his cat-sitting at
Grandcats' my parents' house. All is right with the world.