Bra

You’re not supposed to feed stray cats, but I’ve never been overly concerned with what you are “supposed” to do.

He has a cozy cardboard box in my front entry way with an old towel in it, and he eats dog food.

“Can you make sure that my cat has food?” I asked Rob as he came in last night.

“Your cat? He’s not your cat.”

“He is SO my cat. I love him.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve named him, too.”

“Um… yeah. I have. So he’s mine. ‘Cause I named him!”

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s his name then?”

“Um…” I glanced at my shoulder; a strap was peeking out.

“His name is Bra.”

“Bra?”

“Yes. Bra. Bra the orange cat.”