Becca
I woke up the next morning to the life-affirming sound of cats getting frisky against the neighbor’s fence. Or “making kitten love” if you were the animal whisperer sort.
My neighbor and tenant, Carla, was not.
“If this isn’t a bad omen for the day, I didn’t know what is,” she yelled, from where she stood holding a broom handle in our shared backyard. The sight of her—untamed silvering hair ablaze in the morning sun, threadbare pink robe gaping to show a tie-dyed Grateful Dead shirt underneath—wasn’t even the most concerning thing.
I worried more about what had happened to the bristles of the broom. I feared they’d been shoved up the backside of a fertile yet unsuspecting cat.
My bedroom window faced the backyard and I’d cracked it open to let in a little breeze at night. Carla
