Out of the cemetery and down the street Momma and I march. We meet up with that friendly couple who have cats (I won’t hold that against them) but always have time to discuss me.
Next we pass the big red Canada Post Box that Momma drops envelopes in. I am not sure what that is all about. She explained its use one time but I was eying a brilliant yellow buttercup patch with a white Butterfly hovering over it – should I lunge and snap? Uh, nah, bad Karma, especially around Momma. ‘Let nature run its inevitable course’, she says, she does.
Finally we are at the corner and turn left, where a little Mom and Pop Store sell all those lottery tickets, as well as baskets of flowers every summer and odds and sods that are going no where fast. I wonder about this enterprise because I heard Momma speculate, that maybe it is a front for some illicit den of iniquity because they do not seem to sell enough to stay in business. The store opens when the owner shows up and closes when he feels like calling it a day. It is not a very reliable schedule for the customers, least those who are just trying to buy milk for their kiddies’ cereal. Even the homeless are perplexed about how it stays in business since it never seems to be open when they pass by. I know this because one day, a customer, new to Brampton asked Momma, what gives, what time does the owner show up? All she could do was shrug apologetically (she is Canadian, after all) and say, ‘You got me on that one. No one has a clue….least of all the owner.’
As we mosey on down the street I see The Hat Lady coming, long before Momma recognizes her. My tail starts wagging, a Friendly, Momma will stop to chat. The Hat Lady’s property also backs on to the cemetery. As a matter of fact, she can go outside and wave at RIP Daddy, she is that close to his gravestone. She lives in the old homestead, built by her father, over sixty years ago. The Hat Lady is a devoted Presbyterian. ‘What’s that, Momma? Oh, yeah, a do-gooder with a different umbrella, hers being under the Presbyterian banner. Didn’t some of our ancestors march under that, till they broke away and merged with another Church?’ Water under the bridge, water way under the bridge.
Although The Hat Lady seems to approve of me, she doesn’t have time for a pet, in her life. As they chat, I tire of the wait, and start complaining in a mournful warble, to Momma who, understands and chooses to ignore me.
Finally we are on our way, and cross the road. ‘Oh, there is Ms. Portugal, you know, her property backs on to ours – let’s talk to her, for just a minute, Jakita, I promise’, says Momma. ‘Mr. Portugal (her husband) is fine’, says Ms. Portugal, ‘But he still drives me crazy, wanders all over, someday, he will get himself killed in the traffic’, she says, she does. So true, we have seen him absolutely totter across four lanes of traffic, cars changing lanes on the fly, to avoid hitting him, horns blaring, no one stopping, least of all Mr. Portugal who apparently is on auto pilot and angel wings. I am so glad I have not been assigned to be his protectee.
We say farewell for today, see ya tomorrow, and move on, turn right at the corner, past our neighbour to our left, who are always in
transition. We can not figure out who the owners are, who is in and who is out. It seem to be a never-ending parade of unfortunates. But it is all good because now we are, home again, home again – and there is no place like home.
Get out of my way kitties. I am on a mission to find a place for some water and some downtime.
Just give the dawg a bone!
Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com
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