Once upon a May, 2009, on the day of the great Syttende Mai footrace, a scrawny orange and white cat got sucked up into the windy venturi of joggers, and raced a mile or two down the road. Or maybe even further. Or maybe just a few blocks, we don't know. When he finally got kicked out of the maelstrom, he was at our house.
"Don't feed him, he'll never leave," I said.
But he was a cute, scrawny cat, long legged and so very different from the slouchy, letting-themselves-go, low-slung black cats who call our house a home. He got fed. He stayed. He got a name.
"Ornge," Colin calls him. But after several days of deep reflection, a family straw poll went with...Lewis. And once you name a cat, soon enough there will be a manila folder at the vet's bearing the cat's name. And so it is with Lewis.
Lewis does yoga.