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.