Don't Go Away Mad

We stared at each other for a minute or two. I had wandered into the back yard with a handful of junk mail to deliver to the recycling bin, and there he was. Or she. Or it. A black cat, curled up in the half barrel in the midst of the nasturtiums. The cat, gender unspecified, and I stood and looked at one another, or rather I stood and the cat stayed curled up, but eyes focused sleepily on me. My immediate suspicion was that I had woken this feline interloper from what had been a nap, as is their custom. The half-lidded eyes were indicative of a mind lurching into consciousness. I excused myself, "Pardon me. I didn't mean to wake you. I was just taking this junk mail to the recycling bin."
No response from the bleary-eyed cat. He or she remained curled on top of our newly mashed nasturtiums.
"Just hanging out? Catching a few winks before dinner time?"
Still no response. Just that dull look. I started to imagine some mild contempt coming from this furry visitor. Was it imagined?
"You know," I began to confess, "I'm not much of a cat person."
Now the cat began to stir. I must have hit a nerve.
"Not that I'm chasing you off or anything. That would have been our dog's job, once upon a time." This was a threat of the most idle kind. It has been some time since our dog had chased anyone or anything anywhere. The cat population of the neighborhood had sent out the notice that this was now a safe haven. A back yard with ample sun and a barrel of nasturtiums in which to lay down for an afternoon siesta, let it be known far and wide. Had our house become some sort of cat way-station, part of a network of halfway-plotzes where one could relax and recover from a tough day of wandering the mean streets of Oakland?
"I hope you're comfortable," I said this as I turned to continue my path to recycling. The opening and closing of the bin got my visitor up on his/her haunches, now appearing just a little more lucid. When I came back down the sidewalk, I let my feelings be known: "I'm not going to run you off. That's not going to save those nasturtiums. You look like you've had a tough day." Maybe I was reflecting back some of my own ambivalence about the day.
The cat stretched and then hopped lightly to the ground in front of me, but quickly turned tail and sauntered off toward the front yard. I followed, in no great hurry, watching the exodus. There was a pause, without looking back, that seemed to take in the options: climb the plum tree? head out the gate?
The black cat went out the gate, off to whatever adventure or rest awaited it. I went inside and congratulated myself for my handling of the event.