I see Sam up ahead.

I can see him frisking in the shoulder where the road curves, right by the curb.  He’s a petite ginger tabby with two white socks.  At first, we thought he was a kitten, but he hasn’t grown since then, so perhaps this is as big as he gets.  I don’t know if Sam is short for Samuel or Samantha, so we call him Sam.

Sam has many verbs.  He frisks and frolics on the curb in front of his house, almost like he’s waiting for us to see him having this carefree time of his life.  I suspect, though, that he’s waiting for the bus.  One time, a kid got out, and Sam was waiting and trotted him all the way to the front door—slam—Sam was disappointed without a second glance.

Perhaps he’s not so carefree after all.

But you never would guess it if you saw him.

Yesterday, we caught him crunching on chicken bones from a pilfered trash bag on the curb.  Today, he was covered in concrete grit after a quick dirt bath in the street.  Who knows what tomorrow will hold?