Snaggletooth

I met him on the rooftop. At first, he backed off with ears pinned back. The longer I stood there posing no threat, the closer he came. At last, I was able to reach up and scratch his head. His name was Thomas, but due to the tooth most people called him Tom. He wasn't always so scraggly, he apologized, but he was old and the current owners had recently brought home a kitten in a basket. He was, he explained, last on the list of priorities now.

I told him in no uncertain terms that I considered his tooth and his battle scars to be marks of glory and character. "How can this tooth be glorious?" he queried, amused. Well, it's the first adjective that came to mind. We stared at each other awhile, realizing at the same time that he was a cat, and I was a human, so he lumbered off to the open bedroom window and climbed in, not without a long, last look at me.

And I, well, I continued down the path I had started upon, a little sadder than when I began.