I've popped downstairs to warm the two sips of coffee at the bottom of my cup. Pulling it from the microwave, closing the little door, I turn and, as my eyes glance across the kitchen, bringing into my periphery the big window to the back yard, my brain blinks to Nicholas. As it sometimes does when I look outside. All the times I would take him out, stand with him as he paced and paced the grass in those final dog years.
Now my eyes turn to look at the window full on, and for just a quarter second: there he is. Right there in the window
A dark shape against the gray of the rainy yard.
It's the neighbors' cat Tiger. Sitting on the little table just outside the window.
He pays me no mind. Sniffs around at the edge of the glass. Then hops down and away.
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