Just before dawn most mornings, Charlotte jumps on the bed next to my head and squeaks. If I don't respond after a while, she flumps down beside me, curls up in a ball and purrs. Loudly. Purely on spec. It's sort of an "Okay, then. Forget it. I'm happy just to be here."

Sometimes, though, it works and I get up. She trots ahead to the back door, flicking a glance over her shoulder from time to time to make sure I really mean it. Hence, the first thing I see in the morning, pictured at right. I call it "Charlotte's happy pink exclamation point."

She lives for this. It's the high point of her life. This is IT. Go time. She puts her front legs against the back door and pushes while I fiddle with the lock (stupid girl. It opens inwards), then shoots six feet straight into the yard, her tail and her head and everything she's got whipping and lashing and swiveling.

Whoo, lookout! The Cat is back in town!

She seldom in her whole life strays more than a few yards from the back door. But she totally OWNS her quarter acre of the big city.