Street cats in Brooklyn are as prolific as they are elusive. It's rare that I even make it home without seeing a pair of pointed ears sheltered beneath a parked car, yet I could also easily walk through Bed–Stuy for an hour, eyes peeled, and never catch a glimpse. I've tried to rescue a few of them, though they're usually too frenetic to even stick around through the night. Is that what separates a street cat from a deli cat? A clipped ear is a good thing, feral and tough. I like to think that for every cat scouring the streets of New York, there's someone looking after it, in however small a way. The tuxedo that hangs around my block is intuitive. I take care of her, and I'm sure others do, too. She knows to follow me when a black bodega bag hangs from my hands. I don't think she learned this from me. Her name is Whiskers, but it depends on who you ask. She isn't pictured here.
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