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Close encounters of the furred kind

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During a recent walk I noticed that every house in Tacoma has at least one cat sleeping outside of it. Most of them stared with cold, judging eyes, wondering why there was an unfamiliar, Canadian-smelling thing walking down their street. But one little black fluffy fellow had no such inhibitions. He (or she, but I choose to believe it was a cool guy named Wilfred) pranced up to me and started to follow. I pet him for a minute, but didn’t want him to get too attached — I was going to have to cross a busy street in about half a block, and didn’t want to lead him far from home. But follow he did. Wilfred trotted alongside me, keeping pace and acting like a loyal dog in a post-apocalyptic story. He followed me past four more houses, despite me trying to ignore him, eager to accompany me on whatever adventures lay ahead. Thankfully, he saw one of his cat-friends at that point, and ran off to go proudly display his belly by rolling around on the warm driveway, living up to the cat stereotype and losing interest in me as quickly as it had appeared.

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