When John heard a truck on the road behind us, he scooped the cat up in his arms. We recently found out that neighbor Warren owns this cat that walks with us most mornings. The truck pulled up to us, window open, and Warren himself said with surprise, “She lets ya pick her up?”

To me, Warren sounds like he grew up in North Carolina, probably in the Western part. His accent is softly Southern, not as pronounced as mine, and certainly not deeply drawled like that of Mississippi.

John said, “She jumps right in front of cars, so I try to catch her before that happens.”

Before I could forget again, I asked, “What is the cat’s name?”

Warren replied, “Mah daughtah calls her Blake.”

“What do you call her?”

“Cyat.”

Warren continued, “She’s a workin’ animal. I don’t name her, an’ I don’t let her in the house. It took 20 years for my wife to persuade me to let the dog in. As long as I’m alive, that cat idn’t comin’ in, even if I live to be a hundred. Yeah, that cat is a daredevil. We pull in the drive, an’ she jumps in front of our car. T’other day I made sure she wadn’t in the back of the truck. By the time I got in and started up, she was there. Car comin’. I’ll finish tomorrah.”

With a quick wave, he was off. This may be continued, and it may not if we don’t see him again soon.