By Saturday morning, this first weekend in June, roses bloomed up and down Orange Heights Avenue. But, just as certain as the sunny days meant prying open wooden windows that had been closed all winter, it meant the neighborhood stray cats produced new crops of kittens. Dylan and Joe and Cole's dog, Daisy, were the first to discover the annual litter of orange tabbies and black and white tuxedos.
Dylan was counting the Belgian blocks between his driveway and the far end of Naomi and Boris's driveway, which was as far as he was permitted to walk alone. When Joe came outside to walk his dog, Dylan joined him without a word.
Joe and Dylan walked in companionable silence, each thinking. Joe was considering his Match.com options, dozens of women who had responded to the ad his son Cole wrote and Joe posted earlier in the week. He was overwhelmed even when he started to chart each of the entries, awarding each woman points for her replies.
"I hate to do it that way," he told Dylan, without explaining. "But I know how to quantify, to do stats, you know?"
He looked down at the boy, busy counting something visible only to himself. "I know you know," said Joe.
"See," he continued, as Dylan looked up at him. "I can calculate RBI and a batting average without, well, batting an eyelid. But I don't know what I want in a woman, how to calculate the perfect match."
Daisy, the old golden retriever walking companionably behind them, suddenly took off with a throaty bark, running to the side of Naomi's carriage house-garage. The dog sniffed in the long grass until Joe and Dylan caught up with her.
"Kittens," said Dylan and Joe nodded. The two looked down at a nest of fur and listened to the faint but anxious mews.
Life on Orange Heights Avenue was good for people, thought Joe, but not for kittens. Behind Naomi's house on the dead end were woods where residents came to let their dogs roam off their leashes. A coyote was thought to prowl at night, too. The mother cat was no safer than her kittens, he realized, equally vulnerable to attack and to illness if she ate trash.
"I like them," said Dylan. "There are five, two yellow and three black."
"I like them too," said Joe, crouching down to better see the cats and talk to they boy. "And I know how to keep them safe."
The little boy looked at Joe.
"What we need to do," said Joe gravely, "is call the Kitten Tamer of Orange Heights."
Dylan was counting the Belgian blocks between his driveway and the far end of Naomi and Boris's driveway, which was as far as he was permitted to walk alone. When Joe came outside to walk his dog, Dylan joined him without a word.
Joe and Dylan walked in companionable silence, each thinking. Joe was considering his Match.com options, dozens of women who had responded to the ad his son Cole wrote and Joe posted earlier in the week. He was overwhelmed even when he started to chart each of the entries, awarding each woman points for her replies.
"I hate to do it that way," he told Dylan, without explaining. "But I know how to quantify, to do stats, you know?"
He looked down at the boy, busy counting something visible only to himself. "I know you know," said Joe.
"See," he continued, as Dylan looked up at him. "I can calculate RBI and a batting average without, well, batting an eyelid. But I don't know what I want in a woman, how to calculate the perfect match."
Daisy, the old golden retriever walking companionably behind them, suddenly took off with a throaty bark, running to the side of Naomi's carriage house-garage. The dog sniffed in the long grass until Joe and Dylan caught up with her.
"Kittens," said Dylan and Joe nodded. The two looked down at a nest of fur and listened to the faint but anxious mews.
Life on Orange Heights Avenue was good for people, thought Joe, but not for kittens. Behind Naomi's house on the dead end were woods where residents came to let their dogs roam off their leashes. A coyote was thought to prowl at night, too. The mother cat was no safer than her kittens, he realized, equally vulnerable to attack and to illness if she ate trash.
"I like them," said Dylan. "There are five, two yellow and three black."
"I like them too," said Joe, crouching down to better see the cats and talk to they boy. "And I know how to keep them safe."
The little boy looked at Joe.
"What we need to do," said Joe gravely, "is call the Kitten Tamer of Orange Heights."
