I saw Baxter yesterday – only the second time this summer. He was standing in his driveway, staring at the side of the neighbor’s house. I walked slowly toward him, calling his name over and over. He didn’t move a muscle. I called louder – nothing. I got within five feet of him, shouting, and still he did not alter his position, staring fixedly at nothing on the side of the house.
Baxter is stone deaf.
I finally got him to notice me by waving my arms in the air as if hailing a low-flying plane, like that guy in Platoon. Even then, he didn’t so much notice me as my shadow moving around, breaking up the sun in front of him. He started in surprise, and turned to look at me like, “Who do you think you are, sneaking up on a brotha like that?”
He crouched as if to run away, then must have decided it wasn’t worth the effort, which I suspect is considerable at this point. I was able to get a few little pets in, but he soon shrunk away from my hand, so I’m pretty sure petting is more painful now than soothing.
Baxter’s hips poke out, his eyes are bleary, his orange fur is fading to brown and feels like cheap carpet. God damn, that cat’s old.
