As I sat in my dining room yesterday, enjoying the last of a frozen pizza, and the first of a series of recorded Rumpole short stories, a flicker of motion caught my eye. Looking up to the screen door that let a meager breeze in to cool our house, I saw the world’s most beautiful cat.

He, for my wild guess was that it was a male, was sleek, slender, and self-assured. He was a Siamese of the darker type, so that his tail, paws, and curious face all seemed to have been blotted with some brown soot in his wanderings. His eyes, startling and large, were clear clear blue. He was the most strikingly beautiful cat I’d ever seen. He looked directly at me, and walked up to the door with all the assurance of a monarch. He mewed a friendly hello.

“I can’t let you in,” I breathed, and he closed his eyes and rubbed against the door, purring softly, as if to say, ‘I’d much rather rub against your shins…’

“I can’t give you anything,” I said, and he rolled over on his back, exposing a darling white patch under his chin and on his tummy. He lolled and waited to be scratched. As this did not work, he sidled up to the door and curled up at my feet, against the screen.

I went downstairs and tried to get Matt to come and see, but he was absorbed, so I returned, to find my visitor washing himself to look his best for the second attempt. Now he tried some more lolling, then a little prancing around to show how lovely he was. Now and then the house would settle, and he would jump to attention, as if to say, ‘I am such a good mouser!’ He playfully caught at the door with his paws, just enough to express his dislike for it without damaging the screen.

I stood there looking down at him. He must belong to someone. I wanted to give him a name, but I knew I mustn’t. I knew I was allergic, and I mustn’t touch him, and mustn’t encourage him with a can of tuna. It was an unbelievable temptation to open the door and gather him into my lap. Finally, I crouched down, my eyes about two inches from his great blue orbs. “You are the most beautiful cat in the world,” I said, “but I am allergic and I cannot take you in, however much I want to.” As throughout the conversation, he seemed to understand. He slowly got up and walked away, pausing only to pose on our patio table to show me what a lovely cat I’d given up.

I still wonder what he was about. Just a neighborhood cat, out for a little stolen attention or extra treat? An abandoned pet looking for a new hearth? Or some fae in cat form, fishing for someone to give him the solid reality of a name…