fore.

Cat knows her right away, though. Clothes don't fool him. He rubs her leg
and curls up on the sofa beside her, still keeping a half-open eye on the
oven door in the kitchen, where the turkey is roasting.

Tom comes in, also in city clothes--a white shirt and tie and jacket--the
first time I ever saw him in them. He sits down on the other side of Cat,
who stretches one paw out toward him negligently.

Looking at Kate and Tom sitting there on the sofa, both looking a little
ill at ease, I get a funny idea. My family is starting to collect people
the way Kate collects homeless cats. Of course, Kate and Tom aren't
homeless. They're people-less--not part of any family. I think Mom always
wanted more people to take care of, so she's glad to have them.

Kidding, I ask Kate, "How many cats at your home for Thanksgiving dinner?"

She stops stroking Cat a minute and thinks. "Hmm, Susan's got four new
kittens, just got their eyes open. A beautiful little orange one and three
tigers. Then there's two big kittens, strays, and one old stray tom. Makes
eight, that's all. Sometimes I've had lots more than that."

"Doesn't the landlord ever object?" Pop asks.

Kate snorts. "Him! Huh! I pay my rent. And I have my own padlock on the
door, so he can't come snooping around."

We all sit down to dinner. Pop gives Cat the turkey neck to crunch up in
the kitchen. He finishes that and crouches and stares at us eating. Kate
gives him tidbits, which I'm not supposed to do. I don't think she really
wants to eat the turkey herself. She's pretty strictly a fruit and yogurt
type.

After dinner Tom leaves to meet Hilda, and I walk home with Kate, carrying
a bag of scraps and giblets for her cats. While she's fiddling with the
two sets of keys to open her door, the man next door sticks his head out.
"Messenger was here a little while ago with a telegram for you. Wouldn't
give it to me."

"A telegram?" Kate gapes.

"Yeah. He'll be back." The man looks pleased, like he's been able to
deliver some bad news, and pulls his head in and shuts his door.

We go into Kate's apartment, and cats come meowing and rubbing against her
legs, and they jump up on the sink and rub and nudge the bag of scraps
when she puts it down. Kate is muttering rapidly to herself and fidgeting
with her coat and bag and not really paying much attention to the cats,
which is odd.

"Lots of people send telegrams on holidays. It's probably just greetings,"
I say.