Sylvester
   
    There's a cat in my basement, safe and warm, and freshly fed with a bit
of cold chicken from the "fridge" to sweeten the pot. It's a cat that shat on my desk.
  " Silly" is an old cat, and an old cat is usually a strange beast. I often bemuse that a cat seems to get the worst case of "whatthehellamidoing" of any animal I ever saw. and this old cat of mine has it bad. For the past few weeks, "Silly" has been residing in the garage, or any place it pleased, except in the house.
    It's early winter, and the nights have been hard on the beast, I'm sure. On
the really bad nights I might relent and toss the cat in the cellar to fend for himself. Each morning find him out in the weather with a handful of cat food that I toss in a dish in the open garage as I leave for work. I occaisionally rub his neck, but for a moment. It is an old cat after all.
    Tonight I brought in Sylvester, in my arm, and with a bit more kindness.
I carried him to the basement, got him a dish of fresh water,and a big dish
of catfood. I hand-fed small pieces of chicken breast to the old feline, and
even gave him a nice rub. Near the furnace I placed an old pair of sweatpants, and showed the cat his bed for the night.
    I spoke quietly to my cat for a few more minutes, and as I turned to go
upstairs, leaving "Silly" to his feast, I turned back for a moment and said,
 
                                    "Merry Christmas, Silly!"