The kitty was his polar opposite. It was chaotic. It shed on his freshly pressed slacks. It left muddy paw prints on his spotless kitchen floor. It brought him "gifts"—first a desiccated maple leaf, then a slightly chewed lottery ticket (a loser), and finally, the head of a field mouse, which it deposited delicately on his leather briefcase.
She purred in agreement.
John Persons was not a man given to whimsy. His suits were charcoal gray, his ties were navy blue, and his lawn was mowed in mathematically precise stripes. He lived at 42 Maple Drive, a house that looked like every other house on the block, except for the fact that it was marginally cleaner. john persons kitty
John Persons knelt in the damp soil, ruining the knees of his two-hundred-dollar trousers. He did not hesitate. With trembling hands, he gently pried the plastic free. The kitty didn't run. She licked his thumb, her tiny tongue like a grain of sandpaper. The kitty was his polar opposite
