I don't know how many times I've walked past a brick, row house in the city with a cat in the window. The experience is so common, like roadkill. If I see roadkill, and I'm on foot, and I'm in a contemplative mood, I can't help but ponder my own mortality. Likewise, when I see a cat in a window while in a similar mood, I can't help but feel reminded that I'm surrounded by homes with real people who live in them. People with real lives and dramas all their own. Maybe the cat is all alone, enjoying a bit of quiet, because everyone is at work and school. Or maybe there's an old lady inside watching reruns of the Cosby Show on TV Land. Maybe someone is inside crying because their favorite aunt just died, and the cat is in the window oblivious to, or purposefully ignoring the expressions of grief. But someone lives there. Someone feeds that cat, and pets it, and loves it.