The Note on the Collar
Episode 1 of 4 of My Neighbor’s Cat by Helen Abbott
“You’re late,” I told the cat.
It was 7:04. He was usually at my back door by seven. He sat down on the mat and looked at me like the four minutes were my problem.
Here is who we are. I’m the one who works from home and talks to a cat. There is a neighbor on the other side of the fence, 14B, who I have never seen, who works nights, and who I know exists because his lights go off at eight in the morning and his recycling is always perfect. There is the old woman across the street, who sees everything and has decided I need help. And there is the cat, who is gray, who is round, and who I named Pepper in March because he showed up in March and I needed something to name.
I fed him. I always feed him. That’s the whole story of how this started.
He eats, he sits in the window for an hour, he leaves. By the fall it was a system. I had a bowl for him. I had a brand he liked. I had, and I’m not proud of this, a small blanket.
The first week of October he showed up wearing a collar.
He had never had a collar. It was blue, and it had a tag, and the tag was not the metal kind. It was a piece of paper folded very small and taped on, the way a person does it when they have no idea how collars work.
I unfolded it at my kitchen table.
His name is SERGEANT. He is not lost. He is not hungry. He has a home and a bowl and a vet. Please stop feeding him. He has gained three pounds since spring and the vet is judging me. Thank you. 14B.
I read it three times.
Then I looked at the cat, who was eating, and I said, “Sergeant?” and he did not look up, because he was Pepper, and Pepper does not answer to nonsense.
I want to explain what I did next, because it wasn’t reasonable. I had a job to do and a call at nine. But there was a piece of paper on my table from a man I had never seen, and he had used the word judging, and he had taped it on crooked, and I got a pen.
His name is PEPPER. He has been coming here since March, which is before you, I assume, since I’ve never seen you. He is not hungry because I feed him. He does not look three pounds heavier. He looks loved. 14A.
I folded it smaller than his and taped it on straighter than his, and I sent the cat home.
Nothing happened for a day. I checked the mat more than I should have.
On the third morning he came at seven exactly and sat down and I saw the paper before I saw the cat.
I’ve had him since February. So no. He was a kitten at the shelter and he was the only one who didn’t look at me like I was a bad idea. His name is Sergeant because he walks like he owns the hall. Three pounds is three pounds. The vet has a chart. 14B.
P.S. He is on a diet. So am I. Neither of us is doing well.
I laughed.
Out loud, alone, in my kitchen, at a piece of paper. I hadn’t done that in a while. I noticed myself doing it, which is how I know how long it had been.
The cat finished his breakfast. He went to the window. He sat in the sun on the small blanket I am not proud of, and he closed his eyes, and I looked at the paper again, at the handwriting, which leaned left, which was small, which pressed hard on the P.S. like the person writing it had meant it more than the rest.
I put the note in the drawer with the takeout menus.
Then I took it back out and put it on the refrigerator, and I did that before I decided to, and I stood there looking at it with a magnet in my hand and no idea what I was doing.