Ganymede’s out on the hood of the truck, keeping warm, hoping I’ll relent and let him in, or more probably thinking nothing, or perhaps only warm, if there is such a word in the language of cats. And I will give in and go to the door and call, and he’ll switch his tail and complain as he nuzzles my leg, then check his bowl, then browse through the house selecting a suitable chair. He’s mean to Chloe, chases her, though she’s quick and light and, if cornered, will nail his big ass; you’d think the first time she opened a scratch down his nose, he’d have learned. You would have loved Chloe: small, sweet-tempered, equally black and white; at night she climbs on my chest and watches me, one paw pressed against my chin. Forgive me this: I can’t decide about the house, whether to keep it or sell, where I want to be. I think of Ausencio buried by the fig tree, and little Teasel, and Eurydice. I could leave them here, leave the garden. Would have to. And so I cannot scatter you there as you requested. As always, I need more time.