The cat jumps in through the window. He has been eating and sleeping in my apartment for well over a year now but I've yet to name him. I feed him, and I let him sleep on my sofa, and my bed, and my clothes, and my paperwork. But I refuse to name him. If I named him that would imply some sense of ownership, of responsibility. I do not want to be responsible for this cat. I have allowed myself to decide that he is a he however. To look at the cat doesn't give me any sense that he is a he, but never-the-less that is what I have decided. After all I can't very well always refer to him as "the cat", and to call him "it" seems disrespectful.

The cat stretches his fore legs out ahead of him. It almost looks as if he is praying, spreading himself prone before some feline deity. Before I can continue this shite analogy he leaps into the air.