Peaches

Every time I go to the Shopette at night, Peaches is there. He (she?) is an old stray cat that looks like a creamsicle and cries like a lost child every night in the parking lot. I talk to it when I'm stopping by to hit the ATM or taking the guys to get booze, but have never gotten close enough to pet the creature that sits precariously by car tires as if it's waiting for you to return from the store.

Peaches doesn't have long to live if Peaches keeps hanging around the parking lot.

Some drunk idiot will come plowing into the lot one night or plowing out of his spot, and will either kill the animal or mangle it out of a second chance.

Poor thing.

Whenever I'm returning home at night, Crybaby is there hiding in my garden, waiting to dart as soon as she hears me appearing. I've only pet her once. I felt bad one night and put a bowl of food outside for her, because it broke my heart to hear the tiny thing cry. But I can't bring in another. Danny would kill me and Muffin would throw a fit. I don't know who demands more attention- the husband or the cat.

I think that sometimes, I feel like Peaches.