Indiana Jones lives next door.
But not in the house on the other side of this fence.
His real home is beyond the fence on the other side of our yard.
If you were to ask Indy where he lives, he'll stare at you, cold as ice, and sniff, “THE WORLD IS MY DOMAIN.”
I wouldn't argue with that in the least.
His leaps are gravity-defying.
His attitude is “I OWN you.”
Over the past fourteen years, I've written all but four of my forty-four novels on a sunny chaise or the outdoor couch in my backyard. Sometimes he'll meander over, just curious to know why I set there, tapping away on my computer. Inevitably he deems me worthy enough to rub against the hand I hold down in the hope that he'll do so.
Yes, most times he will.
Ergo, I consider myself one of his chosen few.
Before Indy, the neighbor had a beautiful Calico. It wasn't anywhere near as friendly as Indy. Once it got caught between the ivy and the back fence. This sweet cat's plaintive cries were heartbreaking!
I called San Francisco's animal control division to see if someone could do a better job of coaxing it out of its nightmare prison. Animal Control had no luck and divulged: “If city cats live a year and a half, it's a miracle.”
I was so sad to hear that. I asked a friend who has owned several. Her opinion was different: “Here in San Francisco, if they stay on their block, they can live normal lives.”
Indy is proof of that.
I truly hope cats have nine lives, and that Indy is not even halfway through his.