Little Big Man

Little Big Man was born in a cardboard box behind a laundromat and took to the world the way a river takes to its banks-slow at first, then with confidence that seemed older than his whiskers. He was a small tabby by measurement but a large man by reputation, which is how he came by his name. Those who met him-sparrows, houseplants, a retired golden retriever down the hall-generally agreed he carried himself like someone who had already lived several lives and expected to live several more.

His coat was the honest brown of dust roads and old fences, striped as if some careful hand had tried to write a story across him and run out of ink halfway through. He possessed a friendly disposition, though he preferred to think of it as diplomacy. Little Big Man believed firmly that a warm lap should never go unoccupied and that every kitchen, if negotiated properly, could yield chicken.

He told his tales freely, especially in the quiet hours of evening. Some said he exaggerated. Perhaps he did. But if you had seen him face down the vacuum cleaner, or ride a windowsill like a frontier scout watching the prairie, you might also suspect that half his stories were true-and that the other half simply hadn't happened yet.