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When he wants me to wake up in the morning, he jumps and lands in the middle of my stomach.

Believe me, cats don't always land lightly—only when they want to.

Anything a cat does, he does only when he wants to. I like that.

When I'm combing my hair in the morning, sometimes he sits up there and looks down his nose at my reflection in the mirror.

He appears to be taking inventory: "Hmm, buckteeth; sandy hair, smooth in front, cowlick in back; brown eyes, can't see in the dark worth a nickel; hickeys on the chin. Too bad."

I look back at him in the mirror and say, "O.K., black face, yellow eyes, and one white whisker. Where'd you get that one white whisker?"

He catches sight of himself in the mirror, and his tail twitches momentarily.

He seems to know it's not really another cat, but his claws come out and he taps the mirror softly, just to make sure.

When I'm lying on the bed reading, sometimes he will curl up between my knees and the book.

But after a few days I can see he's getting more and more restless.

It gets so I can't listen to a record, for the noise of him scratching on the rug.

I can't let him loose in the apartment, at least until we make sure Mom doesn't get asthma, so I figure I better reintroduce him to the great outdoors in the city.

One nice Sunday morning in April we go down and sit on the stoop.

Cat sits down, very tall and neat and pear-shaped, and closes his eyes about halfway.

He glances at the street like it isn't good enough for him.

After a while, condescending, he eases down the steps and lies on a sunny, dusty spot in the middle of the sidewalk.

People walking have to step around him, and he squints at them.

Then he gets up, quick, looks over his shoulder at nothing, and shoots down the stairs to the cellar.

I take a look to see where he's going, and he is pacing slowly toward the backyard, head down, a tiger on the prowl.

I figure I'll sit in the sun and finish my science-fiction magazine before I go after him.

When I do, he's not in sight, and the janitor tells me he jumped up on the wall and probably down into one of the other yards.

I look around a while and call, but he's not in sight, and I go up to lunch.

Along toward evening Cat scratches at the door and comes in, as if he'd done it all his life.

This gets to be a routine.

Sometimes he doesn't even come home at night, and he's sitting on the doormat when I get the milk in the morning, looking offended.

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