When I woke up this morning I could hear that horrible sound not even the most dyed-in-the-wool cat lover can stand: the baby-like howling of two cats trying to mate, or one cat trying to mate while the other complains. They at the right-hand end of the wall, which is too dark or hidden by the tree in this picture to see, a bit past the corner, in the lot around the corner. Trapped at the end of the wall was Pobrecito, his back turned to them as they stood eye-to-eye, plumed tails in the air, hair on their backs bristling. He would turn and face them briefly, nervously, wondering (as I imagined it) if it was safe for him to make a run for it. But run where? He would extend a paw, ready to climb down off the low wall, but then pull it back.
I stood on the balcony and watched. I wanted to jump down and scare them away, but it was too dangerous. Pobrecito would hear me too, get scared, and probably fall over into the parking lot below. This was enough of a danger without my intervention, if the other two started to scuffle.
He turned his back to them again, as if having decided to wait patiently till they were finished, and I went inside to make my morning coffee.
Some time later, I noticed it was quiet out. I went to see. The two cats were gone, and Pobrecito was still sitting in his corner, looking unruffled in spite of it all. A moment ago I checked, and he had gone.
Anatomy of Melancholy 
