The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

mortgage. While I summoned the willpower to raise fork to mouth, I watched my neighbor’s cat Winston, a sturdy ginger tom, meticulously grooming himself on my terra-cotta paving tiles. I’m not usually fond of cats; I dislike the way they scuttle under parked cars or squeeze through railings when you make friendly overtures. Winston, though, is an exception. He stands his ground when you approach him, and tolerates stroking and petting until he’s had enough, at which point he yawns, stretches and pads away at his leisure. He’s intimidated by no one and feels no need to ingratiate himself. He calls to mind Kipling’s “The Cat that Walked by Himself,” one of my favorite stories as a child. I remember my father, in his more lucid moments, sitting me on his