Groggily, I yell to Mr. Gray from the sofa, “Calm down! Save the excitement for a neighborhood cat!”
Seconds later I hear knocks at the front of the saltbox. I head to the front door and see that Putnam stands on the narrow porch at the opened door. Although this isn’t important, he’s dressed in a pair of slim jeans, sandals, and a tight dress shirt which is open at the neck. The shirt’s cotton cups his pecs in all the right places, making him look muscular and healthy. “Come in,” I tell him.
Putnam takes me up on the invitation. Mr. Gray sniffs his center, then his bottom. According to the canine, he passes the interloper scan and can stay.
“You got your hair cut.” It’s no longer in his eyes: cut short and blunt, almost military-sharp.
“It was too long. Something had to be done about
