I love vermut. Bittersweet, with ice, with olives, with orange peel. It’s supposed to be drunk just before lunch, but I can just have a glass anytime. That’s why I was sipping one that night at El Cable (they have really a nice homemade one). I went outside to smoke a cigarette when I heard him…
He was complaining with the highest pitch possible inside a house barely built. He was small, very small, no bigger than one of my small hands, dirty, sticky, hungry, infected, a flea banquet. This girl next to me told me she had been hearing his cry during the last two days and was desperate. I don’t know how but she convinced him to get closer to us and when he was close enough, she grabbed him and gave it to me “Take him, he needs you”.
And here we are now. After several baths, shots, vets, pills, love and tons of Friskies, Vermut still complains, but now only when I don’t let him drink what a cat is not supposed to.
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