POSTIE'S DISPATCH
The Cat on the Windowsill
Postie encounters a cat who judged his entire round without saying a word.
There is a cat along the harbour row that I have come to regard as a professional hazard. It sits on the windowsill of the end house, same spot, same posture, same unblinking disapproval, and it watches me do my work as though I were on probation.
I do not mind being watched. A bird of my standing expects a certain amount of attention. What I mind is the quality of the watching. It is not admiration. It is assessment. This morning I delivered a perfectly respectable parcel to that very house, corners square, stamp true, and the cat observed the whole transaction without so much as a twitch of an ear, which from a cat is roughly equivalent to a round of applause being withheld on purpose.
I tried nodding to it. Nothing. I tried my good side. Nothing. I have begun to suspect the cat knows something about me that I do not know myself, and is simply waiting for the rest of the street to catch up.
Still, I finished the row without further incident, satchel lighter, dignity theoretically intact. But I felt those eyes the whole way down the lane, and I shall be walking a touch straighter past that window tomorrow, just in case it was taking notes.