John Persons Kitty Review

John Persons was not a man given to whimsy. His suits were charcoal gray, his ties were navy blue, and his lawn was mowed in mathematically precise stripes. He lived at 42 Maple Drive, a house that looked like every other house on the block, except for the fact that it was marginally cleaner.

One Tuesday, after a brutal day of budget cuts, he came home to find the kitty absent. No mew. No muddy paw prints. No orange fur on the armchair. The silence was heavier than the usual silence. He checked the kitchen, the basement, the backyard. He walked the block, calling out a sound he’d never made before: "Here, kitty. Here, kitty." john persons kitty

She purred in agreement.

The kitty was his polar opposite. It was chaotic. It shed on his freshly pressed slacks. It left muddy paw prints on his spotless kitchen floor. It brought him "gifts"—first a desiccated maple leaf, then a slightly chewed lottery ticket (a loser), and finally, the head of a field mouse, which it deposited delicately on his leather briefcase. John Persons was not a man given to whimsy

That night, he wrote a check to the local animal shelter for five hundred dollars. He ordered a plush cat bed from an online store (it was lavender, a color he had never before allowed into his home). And he finally gave the kitty a name. One Tuesday, after a brutal day of budget

He looked at her, now curled in a perfect orange circle on his lap, and said, "You are a disaster."