There is a feral cat who, at the same time every evening, sits under the trees and calls out for food. S/he probably is part of the colony that prowls between Debra's Way and the railroad track. I say s/he because, as always, there is no means of finding out, short of deploying a large net and thick body armor. Sandi and Kate believe this cat to be female, and have given the name Molly. I am not so sure, for strong ginger markings are predominantly male, and so I call this creature Moliere.
Whatever the sex, or right and wrong of it all, this cat is fed. We will never know its story, and this cat will never know domesticity, and cosy winter evenings curled up in a chair. This is the closest our worlds come to each other. At feeding time, a paper bowl, separated from the camera by twelve feet of asphalt.
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