He settled beside my chair, just beyond arm’s reach.
“Well,” I told him, “you’re welcome to stay.”
I named him Gus.
As he grew, he became the strangest-looking cat I had ever seen.
His face broadened. His ears stayed small and rounded, sitting low against a head surrounded by thick gray fur. By winter, he looked almost twice his actual size.
“You look like somebody parked in your spot,” I told him.
He blinked at me without changing his expression.
Strangers never saw much of him. A knock at the door sent him beneath the bed or into the built-in bedroom closet.
But every evening, when I lowered myself into my chair, Gus appeared.
Sometimes he rested by my feet. Sometimes he watched the road from the wide windowsill.
I started talking to him while I cooked.
When I came home, I called his name before taking off my coat.
