On little cat feet

We have had a visitor lately, to Bert's delight.

Despite a tailor-made wooden insert between our balconies, the neighbors' new Siamese kitten grew big enough over the winter to surmount this obstacle easily on his feather-light, chocolate feet. And since the arrival of spring -- about, oh, last week -- he has decided to honor us with his elegant presence.

His name is Puma, and he is a looong, beautiful animal. He perches himself airily in front of our glass door, waiting to float inside as soon as Bert grants him entrance into his new domain. Then we watch him from the breakfast table, entertained, twisting our necks back and forth to follow his exploration of our territory and making bets as to what he can slip into, out of, and on top of. He's so quiet and elegant! Cats are just generally intriguing -- how do they turn themselves practically two-dimensional to slide through the unlikeliest of narrow spaces, or jump onto a spice rack crammed with precariously-balanced bottles, and not upset a thing? He senses our admiration, too, turning bright blue eyes on us in triumph after each such feat. It must be enjoyable to be young and feline.

We'll have to talk to the nice people next door to make sure they don't mind these visits. Bert, of course, couldn't be happier to share their pet with them. He grew up with cats and feels that a house isn't a home without one. We've considered just getting one, but so far, the freedom from expense and responsibility has won out. Doesn't mean that Bert doesn't continue to cuddle every cat he sees, though (wild ones, domestic ones, they all respond to him). And really, is there anything more paralyzingly charming than broad-shouldered manly men holding small cute things in their big arms?

Bauch rein, Brust raus!