In which the cat plays a long game

Five minutes ago, my cat mewled at me. I was minding my own business, staring at the computer screen and cursing its terrifying whiteness, when he sat down by a pile of books (“All the Truth Is Out,” “Funny Girl” (the Nick Hornby one), “Men We Reaped,” “Books to Die For,” all bound for the Oakland library), tilted his head and did it again.

“It’s not remotely time for food,” I said. “Not even close. Get a life.” I enjoy insulting my cat. He doesn’t speak English, so as long as I don’t shout, he has no idea. It’s perfect.

He got up, walked around, sat down and made the noise again.

“OK, I’ll let you out,” I said. I went into the next room and opened the door.