Vernon pins his ears back. Looks more like a rabbit than a cat. He's grown since the last time I saw him, but he is a small cat, like a man who is short is still a short man. He meows and Warden and Regrette cower. Before I took him with me, Ronny gave me a toy, a mouse tied onto a piece of red string. "His favorite!" Ronny said. "Take good care of him."
Now we wait. Vernon licks a paw with a short tongue. My eyes start to itch. I start to sneeze. I am allergic, I think, to Vernon. Or, maybe, I'm allergic to the mice. They are quiet. I don't hear them. I wonder if they even existed.
It is almost November. Tomorrow, the 1st. Tonight, Halloween. Everyone thinks the trees are most beautiful in October. I'd have to disagree. It's those last few, still hanging onto their leaves, unwilling to part with them, that are the most beautiful. The leaves, deep orange and red. When you think of autumn, those are the trees you think of. November trees.
There it is. A noise. A scuttle.
Vernon stops his grooming. He stands up and arches his back. Again, another noise. Tiny footfalls. Warden and Regrette lift their ears, look at the cat prepare itself for a game it knows its going to win.
There Vernon goes. To the wall. Up, onto the windowsill. He looks up at the ceiling. He meows. It is long and tinny. It gives me chills. Then out he goes. Out the window. The window, where days before ladybugs were coming through a hole in the screen. Out the window, whose screen I removed earlier today, in order to take to Home Depot to find a replacement.
And just like that, Vernon is gone.
What will I tell Ronny?
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