The cat was trailing strands behind itself, so thickly that at first Spring could not see the color of the cat or the shape of it, just a cat-size ball of Strands.
Her partner snorted. “That’s Ginger Tom. Well, that’s what I call him.”
Spring squinted, and noticed a line from her partner to the cat, no, several, thin but intense.
“Ginger Tom?” she prompted. This was… interesting.
“Well, Anna down the street, she calls him Pumpkin.” He strolled up the hill of his neighborhood as if it were flat. “And then Geordi down there, he calls him Nightmare. And Candid-and-Cariadad, they call him Only Man, and the redhead who won’t tell me her name, she calls him brother.”
Now Spring could make out the cat, a big orange – no surprise – ginger tom. “They all know him?”
“Know him, love him, feed him. you can see it, can’t you?”
“The way he’s connected to the whole neighborhood?” Spring paused. “No, that’s not right. Not quite connected.” She found herself smiling. “Smart cat. I didn’t know they could do that. He’s made himself the neighborhood.”
“Not a mouse or vole in a mile radius.” Her partner was definitely proud. “And he brings the other cats around like a posse, too.” He gestured towards several other cats. “Shares the food. He’s a good cat.”
Watching the strands twisting around the hill, Spring had to agree.
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