She’s always waiting there, meowing her Siamese-like meow, reminding me that she’s hungry—or lonely. Rosie isn’t my cat; she belongs to my neighbor. It’s a long story. My neighbor’s daughter has moved back in and, sadly, has brought a big orange cat. A bully cat who traumatizes poor little Rosie. So, instead of going to my neighbor’s door (her home) she shows up at my neighbor’s house—under the Winnebago. We secretly say that our neighbor is Santa Claus. He looks just like him and when we hear him tinkering over there, hammering at all hours, we say he’s making toys. And the Winnebago is the sleigh he takes to the North Pole (although he says they go on road trips to go birding).
