A Tale of Hiroshima

The plump tabby visited Bob and Sue in their small one room about three times a day, each time becoming a meal for him. Eventually Bob named him “Boswell” and Sue gave in to her husband’s literary pretensions. There were no children to consult on the grave matter of choosing a feline name.

Without landlord approval they installed a pet door. Their heating bill would go up but that was nothing to Boswell’s convenience.

Besides, what could compare with the warmth and affection of a cat snuggling up to them under the futon on a cold, winter night? In the distance would be the whistle of the hot noodle vendor and up close would be soft purring.

And what better entertainment than Boswell stalking a huge moth and devouring it in a gulp?

Perhaps the crowning point in their relationship with Boswell was Sue crafting a collar for him. This was a stunning array of garnet, rhinestones, and tiger eye with the cat’s name inscribed on a silver disk.

About this time was when they decided to move back to San Francisco and there was not a thought about their animal companion not accompanying them. Sue started researching the fees and immunizations.

Then one day Boswell sauntered through the pet door. There was a small sheet of paper tucked under his collar.

“My name is not Boswell,” the note said in English, printed by hand. “And I belong to the little girl upstairs in 1271. Most Sincerely Yours, Snowflake.”

Bob and Sue departed Japan without their friend.