I make my way downtown. Walking on solid ground soothes my sour stomach. A few restaurants are open. People walk in and out. I climb a tree that grows out of a perfectly round circle in the sidewalk to the roof of a one-story building. From there I climb a fire escape to the third floor of an old brick building. I leap to a windowsill. The window is open.
This is Quiche’s apartment. He lives alone with an old man named Gary Rodriguez. The man speaks to Quiche in English, but scolds him in Spanish. At this hour, the man will be asleep. He’s an early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort of human.
I mew, and instantly hear the padding of cat paws.
Quiche, a black-and-white tabby with a black jaw that looks like a beard, enters the room and leaps up onto a table beneath the window. He knocks over an empty vase. The sound makes us both flinch. Quiche is one clumsy cat.
“Hi, Hissy,” he says. “You can’t sleep?”
Why does that question always raise my hackles? I should be glad that my friends know me so well. Quiche is a genuinely kind cat. I’m sure he asks only because he cares about me. Still, I growl, then answer in a testy voice, “Obviously.”
“I’d invite you in, but Mr. Rodriguez is up. He can’t sleep, either.”
“Insomnia,” I say.
“Right. He’s reading in his chair.”
“Want to come out and do some prowling? Find something to eat?”
“I shouldn’t leave. Mr. Rodriguez likes company when he can’t sleep. I was sitting in his lap when you mewed. Besides, I just ate.”
Everything is annoying me. It’s no wonder. I’m absolutely exhausted. Wired. Edgy. Touchy.
Grrrrrrrrrr!
“I’m awfully sorry, Hiss.”
I snarl, then turn to leave.
“When the old guy goes to sleep, I’ll come find you.”
“I’ll be Dumpster diving,” I grunt over my shoulder.
I pad down the fire escape, retrace my steps back to the sidewalk, then make my way toward the Dumpsters. Even before I reach them, I sense that someone has beaten me to it.