To Whom it may concern

Disturbed Pedestrian,

If you have come this far, I suppose you have some questions regarding the cat in the middle of the sidewalk. I assure you, those will be answered in due time. But I must first ask that until then, you refrain from contacting any sort of animal control. The cat is not a stray, she is not dangerous, and despite a categorical onslaught of physical evidence, she is not mortally ill. She is mine, and her name is Tulip. 

Now, in regards to Tulip's location: A simple explanation cannot be given. Cats may seem like strange creatures to those who are unfamiliar, but I assure you that everything they do is purposeful, even if we cannot understand it. You see, they serve as a sort of dimensional bridge, occupying numerous spaces at once, spaces we can’t even dream of. They speak to souls that live among light and run from demons that hum in the shadows. They find immense satisfaction in chasing galactic dust and they revel in the sport of hunting fairies. Some like to establish a base camp high up on a refrigerator or a tree. Some like to stuff their plump bellies into remarkably small corners. We could speculate on the source of their puzzling idiosyncrasies, but ought not to, and frankly, God only knows why Tulip has decided, day after day, to sunbathe in the very center of a very public sidewalk. I tried to interfere once, for fear of some reckless delinquent stepping on her, but Tulip has a stubbornness to her that will not relent, and besides, to further question her logic would be condescending. Moreover, it has been nearly three months of all this, and Tulip has yet to be squashed. Every day I pray that she will remain safe, but even if she does get squashed, I’ll know she got squashed doing something she truly loved.

Now, in regards to your likely concerns over Tulip’s physical appearance: It seems even felines aren’t immune from today’s toxic beauty standards. Yes, I know she looks frail. It’s a bone condition. Yes, I know she's losing her orange and white fluff in patches. She likes climbing around in the rose bushes out back. Yes, I know she always looks a little wet. There’s no explanation for this, but it shouldn’t matter anyways. It keeps her cool in the scalding heat. But sure, the fact is undeniable: Tulip looks like she’s been battered by a tornado, or swallowed up by a whale, or hurled through a black hole. Just awful. Now don’t take this the wrong way, I only say this because she’d say it herself - she doesn’t care! She’s got enough on her mind as it is. 

The truth is that Tulip is a philosopher. She spends her hours of reclining on the hot, roadside masonry not sleeping, but rather pondering the symptoms of late-stage capitalism and the isolating consequences of an individualistic society. She considers Chomsky’s innatism, cognitive theory, and occasionally dabbles in nuanced critiques of Kierkegaard. For a number of weeks she even attempted to unify quantum mechanics and the general theory of relativity – thus far an inconclusive feat. Please keep this in mind as you gawk at her. If she looks dazed or strangely aloof, it's not rabies. It’s profound reflection. 

Tulip hasn’t always had it easy. Granted, this isn’t known for certain, as she hasn’t yet confided in me the details of her life story. But it’s a pretty safe assumption to make. She first came to me on an August afternoon, rain washed and shivering. She was malnourished, the effects of which can still be seen in her petite silhouette today. She was trembling, frightened by the raucous thundering from above. She sat on my patio, needing my help yet too scared to ask for it. On this day began my year-long process of gaining her trust. I started off by leaving food out by my gate, something she’d only come by and enjoy once I had been gone from the scene for over an hour. Eventually that hour shortened to a half hour, then about fifteen minutes, then only minutes. Finally, one spring morning as I was filling up her bowl, I felt a moist coat rubbing at the back of my calves in a grateful caress. This was the moment she became mine, and I hers. 

Our relationship from that summer has only grown. During storms she’ll climb in through my window and sleep at the hearth, only to sneak back out when the last of the sky has precipitated. Apart from this, she spends most of her time outside. She loves the garden, lots of things to chase there. But more than anything, she loves the sidewalk. It’s not the home I would have chosen for her, and perhaps it’s not the home she would have chosen for herself, but it is, after all, her home. For better or for worse.

I hope this clarifies things for you. Any lingering questions may be deposited in my mailbox below. You may greet Tulip from afar, and you may wish her well, but please mind her timidity, and keep your distance, unless of course you’ve come to ask her about her thoughts on theoretical physics, in which case I’m sure she’d be happy to share.