The day before yesterday, late in the afternoon, I was in my shorts, cycling at ease on my stationary bike while reading the Haaretz literary supplement, when all of a sudden I heard a loud knock on the front door. I thought who could that be at this godless hour, the police or the debt collector or PET (the Danish pet version of FBI). Upon opening the door I was greeted by the much more soothing site of two young lesbians who are cohabiting at close quarters with a black Labrador. One of them, (the one with the marine hair cut) was holding a cat. She asked me if it wasn't the one I was looking for. I knew of course, he couldn't possibly be him the same way Jule isn't Jim because this one was dark as the night in contradistinction to brownish Giacometti, but I gave him another glance, the last I ever gave him, as it turns out. No, this is not my cat I retorted but try the doctor's house behind.
Which reminds me of the time when Giacometti was still a kitten, another couple knocked at my door, this time a big mama of a Caucasian woman with a skinny sri lankan adoptee girl. The girl tried hard to convince me that Giacometti belonged to her, that he wasn't whom I'd all along thought he was but merely a doppelgânger or a particularly good forgery. I had to stand my ground against these ludicrous allegations even though I felt sorry for the girl. She was obviously deluded by her traumatic loss. What is more, cats can sometimes resemble one another astoundingly, even without being related. That big mama is by the way identical with the doctor who now lives just behind me, and she's the proud owner of a black cat, which may or may not be the one found by the lesies. There is so much more to feline life than meets the eye, it seems.. Especially the neighbor's eyes.
