Let's call him Boots. I actually don't know if he's a Him. He may be a Her. My "Shirley MacLaine Feelings" tell me the tabby is a "Him." I call him Boots because most of his rear limbs are white. His front paws are white . . . so I might have nicknamed him "Spats."

I have discovered Boots on my stoop for several days. Now that the Yap of Chihuahua has disappeared, the cats are free to slink down from the roofs.

(I miss the YAP, they seem to patrol the neighborhood. Held defiance in the street--stopping cars, scaring children, nipping at ankles. More than once the Yap leader, a black Chiweenie growled me back inside my front door. More than once I have said to the little black Chiweenie, "M*****F****R I will kick your little 16 ounce ass over that strawberry field into the broccoli."

I do not like the expression on his mug when I'm talking to him -- that sort of "I'm Using the Time That You're Talking to Me to Think About What I'm Going to Say Back to You" expression.

And he said, the little black Chiweenie said to me, "Que es mas macho, light-bulb o gringo?"

Exhibiting Caucasian pride I declared, "Gringo." (Not proud that I would kick a little dog or set him on fire.)

"No! Lo siento, light-bulb es mas macho que gringo. Gracias. And I'll be back in un momento."

The little black Chiweenie dumped a load, then trotted off.

The sharp edge of his tongue is not the comfort of Man's Best Friend. And for the record, I have always thought a dog should be more than a tongue.)

Boots suns on my stoop. He waits until after I park my car. Until after I come around from the garage. Then he dashes--like an Olympic athlete to the top of a 7 foot fence. Always in the same place. Time after time. (My subsequent investigation revealed that Boots knows exactly where the fencepost is and this little fellow makes his mark every time!)

He's a skinny fellow. I don't know if he's a "Neighborhood Cat." Feral. Lonely. Seeking a human to attend to his care . . . and when all his suspicions are over, when all his cautions have been quelled, when all his heartfelt questions have been answered . . . "Is that my Human?" "Who?" "You?" "Kind?" "Food?" "Care?" Compassion?" "I hear you in the dark." "You cry at night as you growl."

When all of that feline profiling is done, finished, accomplished . . .

In the early 1980's I lived for a while in the neighborhood of Kaimuki in Honolulu, Hawaii. In a duplex on Coolidge Street. There, in the evenings as I would try to arrive into sleep--my heart so damn heavy with the sadness of leaving home; my mother crying as I departed, my father's handshake--back and forth across the corrugated tin roof . . . combating armies of feral cats. I would dash my eyes across the ceiling as the felines dashed across the tin roof. Their yowls, their scrimmages, their pain . . . all part of the opera.

There was one little fellow. He was missing most of his tail. An eye. And his front left leg. Not his paw. Not a joint. His leg. It was missing.

I noticed him at the back door one day so I started to leave little nibbles for him. Together, feline and human built trust. He came to expect his nibbles, and I came to expect his friendship, and his courage, and his trust. I called him Grizabello after Grizabella from "Cats."

Eventually, I was able to coach him inside and I was able to scratch his noggin . . . ever so gently. At my touch he totally freaked and dashed. He clawed through the screen door . . . razor sharp spurs, feline agility.

The next morning I found him dead, squashed in the street. Run over . . . possibly in his mad dash from my heartfelt clutches.

Human contact, perhaps something he desired, but frightening when achieved.

So, back to Boots --

My imagination allows me to create so many scenarios concerning this lost, forgotten, misplaced soul--

Inspiration and seeds.