The other night I met a stray cat. He was friendly, and not excessively afraid of humans, but collarless and world worn, so in my mind, he was homeless. I pet him, although my companions thought that was gross. But he was cute, and I don't get much furry small animal action, and although I don't think I'd like to have a small furry animal living in my home and getting their fur all over my clothes and furniture, I do still crave furry interaction. If he had been my cat, I would have named him Boots, or Blackie McWhitefeet, or Bootstrap Bill, or Cowboy, or Bugsy, or Buster, or Harry McHarrington, or or Kitty. He was black with white feet. Cute, thin, scrawny little cat.
I met him down the street from my house, and I spent a few minutes petting him and calling him to me. He seemed to appreciate the attention. When TC and I started walking home, old Bootsy followed us. I thought that he would lose interest, but he didn't. He followed us all the way to the door of our building. And I felt so sad that I had to leave him outside. But I felt really sad when TC pointed out that I had led the fur ball on, and that I was guilty of doing what so many women do: giving the guy false hope.
I decided that if I come across Boots again I will let him determine our relationship. If he wants a pet, I'm there for him. But I don't want to be a tease.