And so, John Persons, the man of gray suits and navy ties, became John Persons, the man with the cat. He still didn't know what to do with love. But he was learning. One tiny, rusty mew at a time.
He found her—he had secretly decided it was a her—huddled under the rhododendron bush by the mailbox. Her leg was caught in the plastic ring of a six-pack holder. She wasn't struggling. She was just waiting, her sour-apple eyes wide and trusting. john persons kitty
He looked at her, now curled in a perfect orange circle on his lap, and said, "You are a disaster." And so, John Persons, the man of gray
The kitty was his polar opposite. It was chaotic. It shed on his freshly pressed slacks. It left muddy paw prints on his spotless kitchen floor. It brought him "gifts"—first a desiccated maple leaf, then a slightly chewed lottery ticket (a loser), and finally, the head of a field mouse, which it deposited delicately on his leather briefcase. One tiny, rusty mew at a time
That was the sound that undid John Persons.
The kitty, of course, did not care. It slept in the sunbeam on his "no cats on the furniture" couch. It knocked his carefully alphabetized DVD collection off the shelf. And at 6:17 every evening, without fail, it sat by the front door and let out a tiny, rusty mew .