My neighbor’s cat is smart and fast.
But it’s hard for me to believe she could have orchestrated the whole thing. You never know, though.
I had just gotten home after having an early Thanksgiving dinner at my mother’s South Hill retirement community, which is about a mile from my house.
I was still thinking about the mealtime conversation. You see, a couple of my mother’s friends had joined us.
The first was a gentleman who has been one of my favorite people ever since he befriended my parents immediately after they first set foot in the facility’s dining room eight years ago.
His family has farmed near Davenport, Wash., for a long, long time. They were among the first in this area to have a tractor. But they didn’t sell the horses right away, just in case this new-fangled machine couldn’t really do the job.
I love that story.
The other guest was a charming woman I had only met in passing. I found that I really liked her. As a teenager, she emigrated from Germany to the United States just before the start of World War II.
I tried to resist treating her like a 3-D version of a History Channel program. But I hope I get to visit with her again. How many people do you meet who have clear, personal memories of prewar Germany?
Anyway, I got home and looked out a window toward the side yard. (The house is on a corner.) I saw what looked like tire tracks in the thin snow cutting across the grass strip between the sidewalk and street. I went out to investigate.
Before I had figured out what had happened, a police car rolled up. A likable sergeant explained that a driver had lost control on the slick street and smashed into a substantial landscaping rock. That motorist then fled the scene, as they say. But judging from the shards o’ bumper in the yard and the trail of leaking oil, our rock won that bout in a unanimous decision.
A little while later, after I had gone back inside, the doorbell rang. It was police officer Paul Brasch. He was dropping off a copy of the report on the incident. Following the oil, they had tracked down the vehicle in question.
Brasch, another likable guy, cheerfully noted that he had been in The Slice once. (It was 10 years ago, and I said he seemed to be a bit young to be touted as a “legendary” blues musician, as a local newsletter had put it.)
While I had the door held open, the neighbor’s cat zoomed into the house.
It’s OK. She’s welcome.
Most of us had turkey on Thursday.
But I know someone who wanted tuna.
•Today’s Slice question: What Web sites do you check every day?