Dante was an all-business cat.
He knew what he liked and what he didn’t like.
What he didn’t like: people, other cats, an empty food dish.
What he did like: a good couch corner to rip up, taunting dogs, sunshine.
And when it came to sunshine, Dante knew how to like it. And what I mean here is that he luxuriated in it.
I would get home to find Dante lying in the middle of the driveway, belly-up, paws folded over, eyes closed, utterly enchanted by the light of day. The cat knew that sun was special, and he refused to forget it.
You know how after days of rain, people turn towards the sun like marigolds? That’s the way Dante always was with it. It could have been cloudless for five consecutive weeks, and still, this cat met the sun like it was infrequent and precious, and it would be a crying shame to behave otherwise.
Dante, I learned, was a cat who knew how to appreciate common gifts. Which doesn’t seem to be a bad way of doing business.