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.
"Is it my fault you stayed out all night?" I ask him.
He sticks his tail straight up and marches down the hall to the kitchen, where he waits for me to open the milk and dish out the cat food.
Then he goes to bed.
One morning he's not there when I open the door, and he still hasn't showed up when I get back from school.
I get worried and go down to talk to Butch.
"Wa-a-l," says Butch, "sometimes that cat sit and talk to me a little, but most times he go on over to Twenty-first Street, where he sit and talk to his lady friend. Turned cold last night, lot of buildings put on heat and closed up their basements. Maybe
"Which building's his friend live in?" I ask.
"Forty-six, the big one. His friend's a little black-and-white cat, sort of belongs to the night man over there. He feeds her."