The calico cat at the University Club reminds me of Tabitha, a half-feral thing who adopted me at home. Tabitha is a calico, too, but without such distinctly black and ginger patches as this cat, whose name I don't yet know. Tabitha's luxuriant, fluffy fur, tortoiseshell patches and tiny heart-shaped face make her a beautiful girl, but her skittish temperament and complete mistrust of me–even after I've fed her every day for months–set her apart from the nameless cat at the club.
Tabitha sometimes comes when I call, but it's not a sure thing.This cat is a sleek shorthaired domestic, with none of Tabitha's extravagant beauty, but also none of her suspicious nature. I met her yesterday when I arrived at the club and by today Cleo (I've decided to call her that, since the waiter tells me she doesn't have a name) is nearly literally eating out of my hands.
She hasn't yet given me a slow blink–cat for "Hey, Friend"–and she's ready to walk away once my sausage offerings are done, but within a week, I guarantee, she'll come when I call.
I'm here at the club, in L'Anse aux Epines, Grenada, at the largesse of St George's University (SGU), which, along with CaribLit, has given me the inaugural Dame Hilda Bynoe Writer-in-Residence position.
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