Pretty boy, mayor of 7th Street.

Tonight D and I were eating outdoors and this beautiful, snow-white cat appeared out of nowhere, as if by magic. He came over and hung out near our table. I patted him and he stayed there quite a while.

The waiter did a double-take and said, "Where did that cat come from?" and then he said, "You can tell he's a city cat; he's not moving for anyone." The waiter had to walk around him to fill our glasses.

Then the waiter came back and announced that the cat was from the pet food store next door, "so if he's begging for food, it's an act!" The cat sparked more conversation as a flamboyant group arrived and its ringleader yelled, "He's from the pet food store next door! He owns 7th Street! He's eighteen years old! He goes up and down the street and eats at all the restaurants. He's very well-fed."

Eventually the cat got bored with me and walked home. I followed it and the owner told me, "His name is Pretty Boy, Mayor of 7th Street. Well, I call him Mayor of 7th Street. It's really just Pretty Boy. And that's Herbert." Herbert was a fun, fat, fluffy white cat with a slightly crazed face. When I said hi the first time, he said, "Rrow," and went away. The second time I greeted him, he yawned, showing me his big pink mouth.