ailurophile (n): A cat lover
“A man don’t know himself till he knows his cat. Knows how to read’im. Knows how to love’im. Knows when to rub’is belly and when to leave’im alone.”
Beauregard was one of the stranger gentlemen to grace Rollie’s Diner, but not the meanest. They liked him. Liked to invite him over for a fry or cream soda. And he just loved to talk about his family — family meaning his small farm full of cats.
“And I swear to you and your aunt Judith, Trollaby jumped right on up my body and sat himself right on my head. Course, I had to stand real still. But he loved it, he did. A purr you could hear all the way to Mexico.”
“That’s so cool, Mr. Beauregard.” Toddy didn’t think it was cool. He couldn’t imagine letting a cat sit on his head.
Worda agreed with a silent nod. Her attention was split between listening to how Trollaby the tabby thought he was actually a hat and the garbage man, Dewey, dancing around the sidewalk with a full garbage can.
It was when he began to dip the still full can that Trudy, their usual waitress, stopped by to refill their glasses. She noticed Dewey’s dance partner too and chuckled, popping her gum.
“Odd guy, doesn’t realize it’d be faster to just dump it and move on. But you know what they say. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
She moved on to her next customers, taking no notice of the silent and still booth behind her.
© Kaitlyn Mackenzie