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.