The cat at number nine

There is a cat at number nine that sits in the window like a small grey judge, and I do not mind telling you it unsettles me more than any dog on a chain.

A dog barks, you know where you stand. This animal said nothing at all. It watched me come up the path, watched me post the letter, watched me go, and its face did not move once, as though I were a matter it had already decided upon some time ago and was merely confirming.

I gave it the nod a professional gives another professional. Nothing back. Not a blink.

I have delivered through gales, through gates with grudges, through a fog last month that turned every house on the terrace into the same house wearing a different number, and none of it troubled me half so much as being assessed, silently, by something with paws.

I told myself on the way down the path that I had the better of the encounter, on account of being the one with the satchel and the cap and the actual employment. I am not sure I believed myself. I do not think the cat believed me either.

Still. The letter went through the door. That is the job, and the job was done, whatever opinions were held about it from the glass.