The Barker Street Regulars

kept Vinnie’s picture in my purse. Equal to equal, I offered Irene Wheeler a photograph of the cat.
    If one of us seemed vulnerable that day, it was Irene Wheeler. Greedy spring sunlight ate its way through the closed blinds of her office. Lines showed around her eyes, and the whites were shot with red. Her hair had a damaged look, as if she’d overused a curling iron. She wore the kind of cream-colored outfit that’s become popular in Cambridge since the allergy craze hit: a baggy top and loose skirt of what I guessed was organically grown unbleached cotton. Am I making this up? No. Seriously. There are people here who shop as if they’re expecting a famine that will force them to eat their clothes. The fabric looked as nutritious as bed sheets, and it drained the color from Irene Wheeler’s face. I wondered whether she might be recovering from a cold. Or maybe she’d recently awakened from an especially exhausting trance.
    “I rescued it,” I said as I reached across her desk to hand her the picture of the cat. “I didn’t set out to get a cat, at least not this cat. If I had, I’d have gotten something big and tough that would stand a chance against the dogs.”
    “Let us concentrate on this image of the ideal cat,” she suggested, closing her eyes. “The ideal cat is large.”
    Wow! I’d just said so, hadn’t I?
    “The color I see is gray,” she continued. “And amber! A strong amber! Yes, amber eyes!”
    My whole body gave an involuntary twitch. I was glad Irene Wheeler still had her eyes shut. But I’m a truthful person, especially when I’m in shock. “Yes.” She opened her eyes and studied me. “You are surprised,” she remarked lightly. As if taking it for granted that she’d read my mind, she turned in businesslike fashion to the photo of the real cat. “You are obviously disappointed,” she said.
    I hedged. “Well, more or less. The problem is... Well, there are a couple of problems. One is that I never intended to keep this cat, but no one else will take it, so it has nowhere else to go.”
    “It?” she asked.
    “It doesn’t have a name.”
    “I meant the sex,” Irene Wheeler said.
    “It’s a—” I started to say.
    “Female,” she said matter-of-factly. Focusing on the picture, she added, “I sense pain. Yes! An ear. I sense something wrong with one of her ears.”
    This time, I couldn’t hide my astonishment. The cat’s bandage had been removed. In taking the portrait, I’d zoomed to get a profile shot of the side with the intact ear. Irene Wheeler’s eyes were on me.
    “She has a torn ear,” I said. “How did you know that?”
    “It’s a gift. For example, this cat has double paws.” The photograph, I remind you, was a close-up of the cat’s face.
    “Yes,” I stammered.
    “But let us move to what matters. This animal needs far more attention than she is getting.”
    The cat was still stuck in my office. Worse, I found myself doing most of my work at the kitchen table. I cleaned the cat’s litter box. I provided food, water, and veterinary care. Now and then, for maybe ten seconds, I tried to make friends. If the cat had been a dog, she’d have learned the rudiments of obedience by now. If she’d been a dog, of course, she’d have liked me. They all do. There’s nothing supernatural about the attraction. My pockets are always filled with dog treats. Also, I know how to talk to dogs, and I do it all the time. With the cat, I had made shamefully little effort.
    “I have to protect her from the dogs,” I said.
    “This animal is frightened,” Irene Wheeler told me. “What I feel from her is fear. Mistrust.”
    “In the case of my dogs, it’s justified.”
    “Let us discover,” said Irene Wheeler, “the dogs’ perceptions of the matter.” She reached a band toward me.
    I caught on. Digging into my purse, I found my wallet. Taking care to leave Vinnie’s picture where Irene Wheeler couldn’t see it, I pulled out a photo of Rowdy and Kimi that I’d once used on a Christmas card. In the background was a field of snow. The dogs wore red harnesses and were hitched to a dogsled. Irene Wheeler took the photo from me, studied it, and closed her eyes. I discovered myself annoyingly eager to hear what she’d say.
    “They are naturally curious about the presence of the cat,” she said. “Their curiosity is heightened by your attitude of alarm. They find your response extremely interesting.”
    “They probably do.”
    “They are used to