That next afternoon I was sitting round home, I heard the bell. A slight, active sound, about the garden. I tried watching TV. The noise got nearer and farther; neither resolved nor ebbed away. This jingling got loud, resilient. It brought me outside.
And there, beneath the magnolia, the most delightful cream and apricot kitten practiced his pounce. The bell at his neck jogged with each strike. Curious, I picked him up. Perhaps used to attention, he didn’t claw but gave a juvenile, inquiring look. Beneath the bell hung a tag etched with a number. I got my phone. “You don’t know me. I have your cat.”
The woman took a second with it. An exploratory silence. “I don’t have a cat.”