find Web sites about cats.
All this reading may explain why Socrates likes me. Socrates is huge. Twenty pounds of muscle and attitude. His fur is a blend of orange, rust, and yellow that reminds me of apricots. You can see faint stripes on his tail. I bet he had a tabby cat for a grandfather.
Socrates has the reputation of being an aloof, “worship but don’t touch me” cat. Maggie says that he rarely lets her pet him or pick him up. He likes to sleep on Dr. Mac’s desk or on the receptionist’s counter, but he takes off if anyone tries to scratch under his chin or between his ears.
That’s why Maggie and Dr. Mac were so surprised when Socrates hopped into my lap a few weeks ago. He had never done that to anyone else before. It’s like he picked me to be his favorite human. He always walks up to me when I enter the clinic and lets me pet him for a few minutes. If I sit down, he sits with me. Maggie thinks he likes the smell of my shampoo. (I have long black hair, and he does like to play with it.) Dr. Mac says he cuddles with me because I’m a calm and quiet person.
I have a different idea. Socrates knows how much I want a cat of my own. He can tell that I love him. I think he’s adopted me. I guess I’ve adopted him, too. I’ve adopted him in my heart. He’s like my pet away from home—until I get my own.
We round the corner, and Dr. Mac’s Place comes into sight. Dr. Mac’s house is a two-story brick building with dark green shutters and a matching green door. The clinic pokes out of the left side of the house, a one-story addition. It has its own door and two windows that face the street. A garden of spring flowers blooms along the entire front of the building. Dr. Mac says that animals enjoy flowers just as much as people do.
Socrates shoulders his way out of the daffodils to greet me as we get closer. He butts his head against my shins, and I crouch down to pet him.
“Hello, Socrates!” I say.
He purrs loudly, like a lawn mower engine, and rubs the corner of his mouth against my knuckles. Cats have special scent glands on their faces, and when they rub against a person like this, it’s a way of marking their territory. It’s kind of nice that Socrates thinks I’m part of his world.
“You should feel how warm his fur is,” I tell the others as I lay my hand on his back. “I bet he’s been lying in the sun all afternoon.”
“Cats have all the fun,” David says. “Eat, sleep. Eat, sleep, sleep, sleep. Eat some more. Wish I could do that.”
“Hey, look!” Zoe says, pointing to the corner of the yard. “Another cat. Do you think Socrates has a girlfriend?”
The new cat steps delicately onto the grass and walks toward us. It’s a tuxedo cat, mostly black with white paws and a patch of white on her chest. It’s easy to see this is a she-cat. She’s very pregnant, with a heavy belly that almost touches the ground.
Socrates stiffens and growls. I can feel the vibration of his warning call under my fingertips. He doesn’t want her here, and he’s telling her she should leave.
“Shh,” I say quietly. “She’s not going to hurt you. Just relax and be friendly.”
Socrates is not in the mood to be nice. He steps away from me to face the black cat, his ears flat against his head. His tail whips back and forth, warning the other cat.
“Hisssss!”
It looks like fur is going to fly.
Chapter Two
W hy is he doing this?” I ask Maggie. “He doesn’t mind it when cats come into the clinic.”
“Socrates knows it’s OK for other cats to come into the clinic, but the yard is his alone,” Maggie says calmly. “Don’t worry. She’ll run off in a second. That’s what always happens. I wonder where she belongs, though. I’ve never seen her around here.”
“Maybe she’s looking for a place to make her nest,” I say. “It looks like she’ll be ready to have her kittens soon. Let’s get Socrates inside and leave her alone.”
The black cat takes two more steps toward
All this reading may explain why Socrates likes me. Socrates is huge. Twenty pounds of muscle and attitude. His fur is a blend of orange, rust, and yellow that reminds me of apricots. You can see faint stripes on his tail. I bet he had a tabby cat for a grandfather.
Socrates has the reputation of being an aloof, “worship but don’t touch me” cat. Maggie says that he rarely lets her pet him or pick him up. He likes to sleep on Dr. Mac’s desk or on the receptionist’s counter, but he takes off if anyone tries to scratch under his chin or between his ears.
That’s why Maggie and Dr. Mac were so surprised when Socrates hopped into my lap a few weeks ago. He had never done that to anyone else before. It’s like he picked me to be his favorite human. He always walks up to me when I enter the clinic and lets me pet him for a few minutes. If I sit down, he sits with me. Maggie thinks he likes the smell of my shampoo. (I have long black hair, and he does like to play with it.) Dr. Mac says he cuddles with me because I’m a calm and quiet person.
I have a different idea. Socrates knows how much I want a cat of my own. He can tell that I love him. I think he’s adopted me. I guess I’ve adopted him, too. I’ve adopted him in my heart. He’s like my pet away from home—until I get my own.
We round the corner, and Dr. Mac’s Place comes into sight. Dr. Mac’s house is a two-story brick building with dark green shutters and a matching green door. The clinic pokes out of the left side of the house, a one-story addition. It has its own door and two windows that face the street. A garden of spring flowers blooms along the entire front of the building. Dr. Mac says that animals enjoy flowers just as much as people do.
Socrates shoulders his way out of the daffodils to greet me as we get closer. He butts his head against my shins, and I crouch down to pet him.
“Hello, Socrates!” I say.
He purrs loudly, like a lawn mower engine, and rubs the corner of his mouth against my knuckles. Cats have special scent glands on their faces, and when they rub against a person like this, it’s a way of marking their territory. It’s kind of nice that Socrates thinks I’m part of his world.
“You should feel how warm his fur is,” I tell the others as I lay my hand on his back. “I bet he’s been lying in the sun all afternoon.”
“Cats have all the fun,” David says. “Eat, sleep. Eat, sleep, sleep, sleep. Eat some more. Wish I could do that.”
“Hey, look!” Zoe says, pointing to the corner of the yard. “Another cat. Do you think Socrates has a girlfriend?”
The new cat steps delicately onto the grass and walks toward us. It’s a tuxedo cat, mostly black with white paws and a patch of white on her chest. It’s easy to see this is a she-cat. She’s very pregnant, with a heavy belly that almost touches the ground.
Socrates stiffens and growls. I can feel the vibration of his warning call under my fingertips. He doesn’t want her here, and he’s telling her she should leave.
“Shh,” I say quietly. “She’s not going to hurt you. Just relax and be friendly.”
Socrates is not in the mood to be nice. He steps away from me to face the black cat, his ears flat against his head. His tail whips back and forth, warning the other cat.
“Hisssss!”
It looks like fur is going to fly.
Chapter Two
W hy is he doing this?” I ask Maggie. “He doesn’t mind it when cats come into the clinic.”
“Socrates knows it’s OK for other cats to come into the clinic, but the yard is his alone,” Maggie says calmly. “Don’t worry. She’ll run off in a second. That’s what always happens. I wonder where she belongs, though. I’ve never seen her around here.”
“Maybe she’s looking for a place to make her nest,” I say. “It looks like she’ll be ready to have her kittens soon. Let’s get Socrates inside and leave her alone.”
The black cat takes two more steps toward
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