A woman biked the alley all evening, getting off at each yard and staring through the bicycle’s frame as though it was a telescope. On the third pass, she asked Goat if he’d seen a cat.
“It looks like a little tiger,” she said.
He’d seen a fair amount of cats that day, since he’d been wandering back and forth whenever the sun came out, but none matching that description. She shrugged and pedalled on, clicking her tongue.
Goat returned to his daily exercise of refining the excuses for why he acted the way he did, when he knew better.