Guardian angels? This is Blackie, whom I have known from a kitten. I know him by his crooked tail, stumpy and blunt. He is a feral cat who has lived down our jungly lane for about four years. I used to have quite a following among the strays around here. Ah, I put out food and water. I always think they must get thirsty. This morning when he sat quietly in front of me and licked his lips I was sure he was thirsty and, as I hauled garbage to the curb, he lapped up a little water from an old ash tray I put out. I even found some stale cat food under the sink, but he turned up his street-wise nose at that. The old folks in the big block that shades my garden in the afternoon drop down tastier morsels from the balconies. When he showed signs of pissing on my flower pots, I clapped my hands and chased him out. I will be nice to you, Blackie, on my terms. As he turned to jump through a weed patch close to my rose bush, I noticed how broad his head has become. He now resembles the venerable tom who fathered him and is no more to be seen.
The little blue angel with one wing always behaves herself and presides over the day and night comings and goings in the garden