Gathering Dust
Her name, I don’t recall but she was black, black. She had kittens in my mother’s linen closet, I
only remember two, one was ebony, climbed into the car’s engine, the other we named Toby, gray and white.
My collection of cats: Pewter, wood, ceramic, whimsical, true to life, one-inch square painted in Paris, ruby red from a long-ago friend. Salt and pepper shakers—white with black spots from a patient I treated. Not exactly my style, but she insisted.
I have had two cats: Puff, he was feral, took two weeks to catch him in the apartment, had tapeworms bad. Ivory came with a fake gemstone collar, took that off right away. Puff, he used up one of his nine lives, swallowed an embroidery needle with thread. I found it in the litter box. Ivory had one ear amputated, a tumor. Now I have two dogs, the greyhound trained to chase small fluffy things and a boxer/pitbull who has forgotten Ivory.
Maybe, if I wrap the figurines up, take them to the thrift shop, someone will buy the salt and pepper shaker.
selcouth south 2019
