Sunday Cat and The Artful Dodger

The bottom dropped out of the sky and it rained hard and steady all day yesterday. The next county over had flash flooding. We didn't get out at all, except to feed the Sunday cat, our Sunday visitor and from-time-to-time sojourner. She has taken up with again with us for a piece. She limps now, and the once-pretty tabby face begins to show signs of wear, as a degraded woman whose eyes have dark circles under them, and shows hints of new distrust. We hope that she is not again in the family way. Last time, she presented us with four kittens, four wild little things. They stayed long enough for one to grow semi-tame and one to grow less cautious. The third was a timid creature, too shy and fearful to be fully tamed. The fourth, a pretty, furry little tabby mix whose long fur tempted one's petting hands to reach out hopefully, was a sly, resentful fellow. He never forgot a grudge, and therefore, could not be tamed. We called him fuzzy bottom, but I shall rename him, after the fact, to The Artful Dodger. The fat booger would not come forth to be touched and resented our intrusion into his mealtime; yet, he did not go hungry, for he was a wizard at pilfering food from the others. One day the mother decided, I suppose, that the tamish ones were getting a mite too comfortable; so, she picked up without notice and took off during the night, kittens in tow. One ice-cold morning, The Artful Dodger came back, changed, shivering, terrified. He was off his equilibrium. Hunger will do that to a fellow. He informed us in desperate kitten-screams that he was ravenous. We complied with food, he ate, and thenceforth we never saw him again.