I walked down Geary St in San Francisco, California, down through Union Square, to a little alley called Maiden Lane. Instantly, as I made that turn, I saw cats smoking, painting, and talking. I over-heard their conversations enviably talking about Stanford. They saw me and became motionless, measuring me. I gave them a nod, and they continued with their superlatives about Stanford, as I continued, ignored. I saw a sign: ‘Stanford’s Art Gallery'. I was where I should be.
The moment inside the gallery several items were dropped in my hand. In awe I held them. Stanford made them for me by hand, or, with his own two paws. It was exaggerated colors and beauty, similar to his Gallery. It was a hat and a matching scarf. Suddenly I felt like an artist. I wrapped the scarf around my neck, twice.
Stanford’s preparedness is impeccable; he tailors my clothes, his, and the rest of the crew, with uncanny detail. His tuxedo is immaculate, always, with a perfectly symmetrical hole for his tail. I’ve always wondered, ‘How does he do it?’ Without superlatives, and without questions, he’s a post-modern renaissance cat! He’s already taken over the books, and has re-built what a fledgling business once was into: Talk around town.
Every night the smell of Stanford’s taste and wisdom billow out into the street, and soon Stanford’s Gallery is filled to capacity. Every patron that enters is greeted by Stanford like a long last friend. His tail, always, is moving in perfect sync, either because of noise from the gallery, or from noises in the street. He kisses everybody’s hand and check, old woman blush. There’s nothing else to say---he’s one charming cat! Everybody loves Stanford! I love Stanford ---he’s my cat!
The End
