Cats are my favorite people

From Alfred’s journal

The gray cat from the blue house sat on the fence post below me for most of the afternoon, not hunting, just sitting with her tail going. For years I took her for an enemy, which was reasonable, and took the woman who feeds her for a friend, which was less examined. But the woman talks at me. She comes out with bread and a running commentary on her sister, and I am expected to be charmed. The cat wants me dead and makes no secret of it and asks me nothing. Cats are my favorite people. We sat there until the light went orange and neither of us pretended to be anything else.