He's a Tramp

I could tell from her shy smile that she was hoping I'd stop. Of course, it wasn't me she wanted to meet. That honor fell to Rainy, our Beaglier.

Neighbors regularly interrupt our morning walks. They bend down to greet her eager face and ask what kind of dog she is. Then, as they stand back up, they invariably declare, "She's beautiful." These moments always make me feel a little awkward. Am I supposed to say "Thank you"? It's worse when they're out with a dog of their own. Most times I can't sincerely say the same thing about their pooch, and I'm not Southern enough to utter the polite lie the situation requires.

Thankfully, this girl didn't have a dog with her. Just her mom, who'd walked her across the street to the unmarked school bus stop. The daughter was probably a first grader, judging by the toothless gaps in her mouth. She was thrilled when Rainy reared up on her hind legs to greet her. The dog was equally thrilled to have the attention of a new human.

"She probably smells our cats," the mother said as she too bent down and petted Rainy.

"We have TWO cats," said the daughter, any hint of shyness banished by innocent affection of our Beaglier. "But this morning, we had to chase away another cat because he was eating their treats."

"Oh," I said, straightening up. "It wasn't an orange cat, was it?"

It was.

We have two pets, you see. Rainy you've already met. The other is a feisty ginger named Butter who spends his nights marauding across the neighborhood. His manners at home are nothing to write home about, unless you're writing a feline gossip column, in which case you'll never want for new material.

"I'm sorry, that was probably our cat," I said, speaking now to the mother.

I don't know how to describe the transformation that came over her. She looked at me with a new light in her eyes. Not an angry light, either. The kind of light that fills one's eyes when you unexpectedly meet a favorite celebrity in real life. "Are you Butter's?"

Her word choice is telling. She correctly perceived that we don't really own Butter. He comes and goes as he pleases. As glad as he is to nap in our armchairs and chow down on the cat food we buy him, he's happiest out of doors, especially when the weather is warm and the prey unsuspecting.

But he also loves the neighbors. A true tramp, if you will. On cold nights, he'll meow up a storm until we let him out, only to show up at someone else's back door, looking pitiful. He's learned that other people will gladly serve him grilled chicken, a dish that's not on his menu at our house.

I'm not on Next Door, but I've been told that Butter is Next Door famous. Same thing goes for the neighborhood ladies' Facebook group. He knows more people here than we do. Which is why this mother wanted to know if I belonged to him. And why, when I began to apologize for his behavior, she quickly shut me down.

"Oh, we love Butter!" she exclaimed, eyes still alight. "We love hearing about him on the Facebook group. And you know, there's another orange cat in the neighborhood, a thicker one. I bet it was that one I chased away this morning."

Perhaps she was just being Southern, politely lying to spare my feelings. But I swear, that light I saw in her eyes was real. Yes, he's a tramp. Yes, he's a scoundrel. But everyone loves and adores him, hoping he'll stay that way.