I went out to walk Paul Auster’s dog today to Timbuktu and back, but he got away from me when he caught smell of Rocco – one of the semi-feral cats from next door.  Black and white patchwork, he had to abandon his usually slinkily suave gait.  It seems more pronounced in west coast cats, the way their shoulder blades stick up and their bellies hang low off their hips like sizes too big cargo pants.  But with a dog on his trail, his posture snapped right back into place before bolting deep into the shrubbery.  Rocco was confused, because no matter how many dead birds and gophers he brought home and dropped at the door, his owners always seemed mad at him.

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