The Intelligencer

Almost every night, she takes up her position. Cammie sits on her haunches, or lies with her legs folded under her, on the carpeted shelf by the sliding door in the sitting room. The door is open but the screen, of course, is closed. She trots in as twilight coalesces, and takes her place.

I can’t believe that the princess sees much from where she reposes, almost at the floor. Sometimes, she lies on the top perch of the cat-tree next to the screen, but usually on the shelf, ten inches or so above the floor. I think what she may observe is secondary or tertiary to what she hears and smells, two senses which, for a cat, must be as open to stimuli as sight, if not more.

So she sits there, usually for a few hours, collecting the fragrances and the sounds, and the odd sight, from the neighbourhood, as it closes for the night. She learns what the deepening dark tells her; her spies come to her on the breeze. Now and then, there is excitement: an intruder-cat to be warned off, or a passing human warily to be watched. But usually, this is a retiring time, with the world providing information and gossip quietly, and in small pieces.

Cammie will miss the open door come the cold months. But the apartment has advantages over the old house, with its storm-windows and screens that came and went. Even when the temperatures drop, a slight aperture may be arranged in the sitting room, a little window within the window, large enough for a small black nose, or a twitching ear. The duties of the intelligencer know no seasons.