My new neighbors in the two-flat, Megan and Adam, seemed laid-back and friendly, but I wasn’t taking any chances. The landlord didn’t know how many cats were clamoring around my place, so why should they? You never know who will start out cool, then turn on you and turn you in. So when I introduced myself to the couple, I said I lived with, uh, two cats. No problem.
And then Megan started to visit. The cats would shyly hide as she’d stay to chat awhile–then one, any one, of them would slip out to wind around her ankles. She would admire whichever one it was at the time, and ask its name. Then, looking puzzled, she would stroke the cat and say its name over and over.
After I’d known my neighbors a few months, I came clean. I didn’t have two cats, but, well, five.
Megan looked at me steadily, with just a trace of hostility, and said, very slowly, “I … thought . . . I … was … losing … my … mind!”
Hey, it’s not as if I’d confessed to having five live-in boyfriends (I wish).
