Spring 2006

 

 

 


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is this for sale?
Pat Overbo

“Is this for sale?”

I was busy straightening a bin of books I’d just added to the garage sale when a creaky voice behind me asked the question. I turned around to see an old woman, her hair in an old faded scarf, her blouse looked and smelled as though it hadn’t ever had a washing. I held my breath as I smiled my good-neighborly smile and tried to discern what she was asking me about.

“I’m sorry… is what for sale?”

“Your cat.” She pointed under my lawn chair to my seal point Siamese, Felix, who peered out from underneath, having wrapped his leash around a chair leg. He hated his leash, but he loved hanging out outside.

“Oh,” I smiled. “No, he’s not, I’m sorry. That’s Felix. We’re keeping him.”

“I’ll give you five dollars for it,” and she bent over to count out bills and change from a small change purse, her bent and twisted fingers having a bit of a hard time of it.

“Ma’am, he’s not for sale.”

“My, but he’s a pretty thing. Why are you selling him?”

I turned around and scooped Felix up and backed into the garage. I quickly opened the door into the house and dropped the cat, leash and all, inside. Turning back, the old woman pressed five dollars in ones, quarters, dimes and pennies into my hand and set her rheumy, confused eyes on the door.

“Did you send him in to get his things?”

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