All day long I've been looking forward to relaxing on our back patio with a book. Joe does not share my view of this as relaxing, as our pavement tilts at what seems like a 60-degree angle. But as long as I don't make any sudden movements while seated, it's quite comfy. And listening to the birds, the crickets, the river, and the occasional train on the opposite bank of the river is usually very soothing. Until tonight.
Tonight my reading session is delayed before it even begins. Glancing out the window, I notice our neighbor is tinkering in her garden, and I prefer to be alone when I'm out there. It looks like she's going to be there awhile, so I decide that there's no need to wait until I'm outside to read; I'll just sit down on the couch. Later, when the coast is clear, I head out, chair, book, phone, and the ever-present water bottle in tow.
Immediately I realize why I had not actually heard my neighbor go into her house. She is down a few doors, chatting with some other neighbors. They are too far away for me to hear anything being said, so I settle happily into my chair and begin my relaxing time of reading.
After about five minutes I hear a cat, a very small cat, begin to meow piteously. We do not own a cat. Our next-door neighbors do, but theirs is rather large and not wont to wonder outdoors. I try to ignore the very small cat. It meows even more piteously and insistently. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed the very small cat, hoping that perhaps someone is searching for it at this very moment and will relieve me of the responsibility of finding it. But there is no one. I sigh, heave myself out of the chair (being careful to maintain my balance on the 60-degree angle concrete), and bend over to look under our porch. There are all kinds of things under the porch, things I would rather not see, but there is no cat. It may be under the neighbor's porch, which adjoins ours, but I figure I have done my duty by the cat: It is not on my property and so therefore not my responsibility.
I go back to reading my book. Air conditioners suddenly come alive, scaring me almost off the chair. The neighbors on the other side of us both emerge from their back door, one to walk the dog and the other to chat on his cell phone. It sounds like the latter is giving directions to someone. The dog-walker joins the chatty neighbors down the way, introducing himself to the new neighbor and breaking away every now and then to retrieve the dog, who is more interested in sniffing everyone's yard than in listening to gossip. The dog finds its way to our steps and comes bounding up toward me. It almost reaches me before its owner realizes where it has gone and comes to retrieve it. The owner stops to say that the dog likes our steps for some reason, that at least every other day he has to chase it off our porch. I laugh and wonder, with the neighbor, what scent in our yard has caught the dog's attention. I hope fervently that it is not a very small cat under the porch.
At this point I have attempted to read the same paragraph about five times. I try to shut out everything around me in order to concentrate. A car pulls up in the dog-chaser's parking spot, and a woman emerges -- no doubt the person on the other end of the line with the cell phone talker. Seeing the large group of people gathered down the way, she joins them with loud, effusive greetings. She and her two hosts -- followed, reluctantly, by the dog -- wander back my way. They settle in on their porch, next to ours, for some friendly conversation. Conversation that sounds as if it will last quite some time. Their voices are soon muffled, however, by the roar of a train, which tonight seems exceptionally loud. Two more dog owners wander by with their charges.
Suddenly the cacophony of voices, train, dogs, air conditioners, and meowing of the very little cat is too much. I shut my book rather forcefully. This throws my precariously perched chair off balance, and I am deposited unceremoniously -- and loudly -- on the hard ground. But I am just one more sound in the cacophony.
Maybe Joe is right. Sitting on the porch to read isn't all that relaxing.
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