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So this cat, Patrick, has always been like the King of Kensington. Canadians will know what that is, you Yankee witches won’t have a clue. But the King of Kensington was a Canadian sitcom character who was a friendly face and beloved in all the neighborhood. He waved and smiled at everyone he met.

Patrick has usually been the King of Kensington in all of his kitty-cat neighborhoods. When the weather warms up, he likes to be outside all the time, hanging out with other cats, checking things out. He only comes in for a bite to eat and to sleep at night.

Suddenly he no longer wants to go out, and almost shudders in fear every time I open the door and offer him the great outdoors. Especially at night.

Something has happened to him out there and scared the hell out of him, I am guessing. There are no dogs around here, so perhaps the raccoons gave him a scare. They are much smaller, meaner and more aggressive than the big fat docile ones back in Toronto whom he actually used to hang out with. In Toronto, I believe cats think they’re raccoons, and raccoons  think they’re cats. I used to have big fat ones open my sliding glass door and stroll into my kitchen, looking at me as if to say: “Why aren’t you feeding me? You feed the others.”

All the cat wants to do now is lounge around in the house sleeping and eating and begging to be scratched. I have never seen him like this. He’s so needy. The other cat is out all the time, having the time of her life. Whatever happened to him clearly didn’t bother her in the least. Perhaps she orchestrated it, because it allows her to sneak around with Orangey.

Kitties. Even with wigs, they’re so mysterious.