He is that color, all black with green eyes and you may be sure I am keeping him inside next week. At 10 weeks he wants to be outside in the back all day and will not come inside willingly. It amuses me that he will come to me from any part of the house when I call his name. Mojo too learned his own name early in life. And now his toys have been handed down to Bijou. That hurts — how it hurts, to call him Mojo by mistake. Although he does not yet know how to operate the cat door, I plan to lock it at night, which may keep him safe a little bit longer.
A Halloween memory: I went to Boston to visit a friend late in the year 1998 after Renato died, and she took me to Salem, a place that played up its witchy history for all it was worth. We took in a brief, staged enactment of a witch trial, then walked around in the basement to look into cells where effigies of women awaiting trial stared at us through the bars.
My friend apologized later for the kitsch she had exposed me to, but I assured her I didn’t mind at all. All of it was interesting, no matter the corniness. Then she took me to Lexington, and there I fell in love with the town. It was that time of year, when giant gold-red oak leaves covered the town greens, and I admired the statue of the Minuteman and handsome two-story homes. It was American history served up imposingly for this immigrant from the West Coast and other countries.
When we took leave of each other I drove down to Cape Cod, and I waved as I sped past the sign “Plymouth Rock”. So much to see, and only a few days in which to see it.
Back to Bijou, I am not sure whether I am writing his chronicle here or will do so properly as “Bijou’s Way”, like “Meow’s Way” and “Mojo’s Way”. The latter was published in Australia; “Meow’s Way” won the Animals Book Awards. May my sore heart hope Bijou will be around a long time?