Living in a house with a yard is great for the cats anyways. As far as Henry was concerned, I was a raging success, in moving us to The Hill. We’d been in two studios before this: a dorm-room sized hovel in East Village and a larger, cooler space, with high ceilings and a fantastic view, at The Ladd. I’d picked a location near some green, apartment hunting from my desk at work in Manhattan. But once moved I saw immediately the little gardens of the village, with their winding paths and cat friendly foliage, were far preferable to the sort of barren expanses of the South Park Blocks.
The park blocks of Portland, both north and south, are like putting Tompkins Square Park in the middle of a suburban sort of downtown. They are incongruous. They do not mix well.
These day Henry roams the fenced backyard solo, wearing a collar. My nimble, unspayed queen gets walks.
My little champion needs a lot of attention to thrive. She’s just lucky I have the time, and her morning interruptions are generally a welcome break. I’ll often play with her, running her around with her favorite squeaky toy. The sun made a welcome return today though, after four days of PNW rain and dark, gothic gloom, so I got her out.