It

It — whether a he or a she I cannot tell — comes slinking outside my shul window every morning, just before our minyan reaches the Hodu section.

The window is at ground level, so I get a good look at it every single day: gray-green eyes, rusty brown furry skin on its body, mutating into motley blotches of brown and gray on its four legs. Nose to the ground, shifting and swaying from side to side, (shall I say, reminiscent of davening?) it seems to be searching, ever searching (shall I say, for something precious that it lost?). Occasionally it pauses to gaze (shall I say, to contemplate and meditate?) at the bushes, then turns its head, places two paws on the window, stares at us (shall I say, longingly?) and then moves on, stealthily, warily (shall I say, sorrowfully?).

It is quite punctual. Every morning just before Hodu, precisely at 6:35, it dutifully makes its appointed rounds, following the same ritual, the same path, the same movements, its tail slowly wagging — better: dragging — behind it.

You do not have to be a Sherlock Holmes to realize by now that this “it” is a cat. Most cats are female, but one cannot be certain, so I use “it” — though it has a personality of its own and certainly deserves a more distinguished cognomen.

Who is this not very beautiful cat? I close my eyes and give my imagination some space.