Another Sort of Thanksgiving
More than five years on, the feral cat colony still abides along the river. My pal Buster rules, taking the lion's share of my sardines and tuna. He knows me well, that grizzled ex-tom. If I just visit and sit down, he'll come up and start bumping my hand with his head. After the fish is gone, he'll saunter back to me, presenting his shoulders and haunches as if to say: "Let's see those fingers work!"
And I comply, with gentle kneading, he stands still and takes it for as long as I'd care to give it. A few of the other cats look on, curious, but with a lack of comprehension of this display of symbiotic pleasure. Buster understands.
Today, before our family dinner, I'll again take the walk over to the river and treat Buster and his pals. They are thankful for their lives of freedom, as I am thankful to be allowed into their lives for a short while.
And a splendid time was had by all.