Expectations

"Epstein!"
No answer.
"Epstein?"
No answer.
"What's gone with that cat I wonder? You Epstein!"

No answer.

Expectations. Of course he calls and of course I do not answer. What adventure would there be if I answered? I sense in him the vestigal remnants of significant relationships with cats, a serious inducement for my eating the food he sets out at night. Persons fond of dogs and cats are naturally suspect and he, this person who leaves food for me, comes with an aura of past and present animals.

Humans. The scents they carry. Makes me want to reread O'Brien's The Things They Carried, which he probably has in one of those shelves near his computer. He also has a pesky dog, which makes my nightly ventures through the cat door and into the computer a risk.

Still trying to figure how he knew to call me Epstein.

There is vast mystery in living.