The March of the Motorcycle Gang

I am not sure how many black and white short haired cats there are in this colony. Around half a dozen, I'm guessing. They look very similar to me. My neighbor seems to track them more easily. "Oh yes, that's Harley," he says. "And Tiny and Blackie." Or, "Negrito".

At the vets', I name them on the spot. Harley de Negrito, Davidson de Negrito. My neighbor takes up the name when I return them to him. But I can't keep track.

What I do know is that they seem to be mostly male and that they've discovered the cafe on my patio. In the morning, several hover on the rooftop of the neighbor-inbetween waiting to see who will feed first. I've taken to keeping an eye out for their disappearance before I set food out. The leader of the gang has become substantial in his width because of double dipping.

Lately, they've been testing getting in the door. I stand next to it like a bouncer in an exclusive club in New York. "No! No black and whites," I announce firmly. "Yes, you ZoZo, Mamacita, Rimpoche, but not you."

I know it's a losing proposition. Come summer, my door will remain open much of the day and they will explore with impunity. They are curious, as cats are designed to be. I'm not inclined to exercise exclusion in my life, so I predict I will relax my current standards as long as there is no marking being done inside my studio.

There is, I suspect, something here about accepting what life has to offer. Tolle advises non-resistance, non-attachment, and and non-judgment. Just as I didn't know that Penelope was bringing me a gift of support, I don't yet know what it is their presence is bringing.

All the same, I want to be clear, discernment leads me to continue the practice of avoiding patio service while they are lolling about. I doubt fat ferals is in the interest of the colony or my pocketbook.