Cats of Reykjavík

Hugo

Cats have the run of the city. The fine specimen above thought it was great sport to hide behind tombstones and box my legs as I walked by (no claws were used.) Most cats have collars: in exchange for an affectionate rub they allow you discover their name.

Sunday opened with heavy clouds, although the rain held off. I spent the morning drinking coffee with an animated group of about thirty Icelandic men. Sufficiently caffeinated, I strolled about the old harbour which is undergoing a massive overhaul. There are still plenty of ships though:



The sun broke through just about the time I got to the pool and it would become the most glorious day yet:



When I got back from the pool there were a cluster of people in the churchyard. One of the Cats of Reykjavík had evidently just spent his ninth life. It had a collar but no tag. A woman was posting a picture of the creature to Facebook in hopes of finding its owner.



When I came back from dinner, the cat was gone.