A Courtyard Of Glass Tables
Ever since I became homeless I’ve had to look for places to sleep—every night. I couldn’t stay at my mother’s house because her boyfriend, Gruenwald, drinks like a fish. There was the time I tried to stay with Aunt Sadie. Gruenwald was over there. I guess he makes the rounds. I’m sure not going to mention it to Mom. Everybody’s in bad enough shape as it is. Old Gruenwald is homeless too and he’s a big con artist. Homeless shelters won’t take animals. So, one night when I was walking down Canal Street with my little cat Rose in a carrier and we still didn’t have a place to stay, I saw a narrow space between two buildings. I squeezed in and, about thirty feet back, there was an old courtyard full of glass tables. Here Rose and I were in our own private courtyard. I put on her harness and tied the leash to the leg of a table. I opened my sleeping bag under the table. When I woke up, I found a little dead mouse by my head lying with its feet up in the air—a present from Rose.
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