I knew something was amiss.  Batman (pictured in a Moment of Zen, above) and I were tight, see.  And while he'd disappear sometimes for a few days at a time (which is, after all, everybody's right) he hadn't been seen in the 'hood for weeks into months this time around.  Of course, I'd begun to fear the worst.  But I still held some vague, far-off hope that we would be back to sharing tuna samiches on the porch of the orphanage someday soon.  It was, after all, very often the highlight of my day.

I'll admit it took me awhile to put it all together.  August and September were busy months at work, and I hadn't been around to have my work-at-home lunch breaks with my furry little lunch buddy.  Plus, having moved from the front of the house to the back, my whole take on our neighborhood ecology was turned on its head.  It's a whole different neighborhood from back here. New friends, new enemies.  Yoga Woman, Sox Dude, the Davis Square chapter of The He-Man Woman-Haters Club, and this evil little fellow who likes to stare me down while I'm at my desk trying to work...

...occasionally chastising me for surfing the web and wanking too much (the two greatest dangers of telecommuting).

Batman's people live in the house across the street from us, see, and before I moved to the Queen's Suite, I was always able to keep abreast of their comings and goings  through my tiny window in the garret.  Now I have a different view.  And I've sort of lost touch with that part of the neighborhood.  I can't say as I miss it, if you want to know the truth.  The new view's obviously more upscale. 

Point being, I had no idea Batman's people were going through a divorce.  If I was still in the garret I would surely have noted the absence of the annoying middle-aged husband with the jazz dot in the age-inappropriate attire — he dresses like a  skateboarder, his graying hair flowing out from under a ratty red knit cap he always, always wears, regardless of weather — and how his two identical late '80s red porsche 911s had disappeared from the curb out front.   

But the thing about Mr. Midlife Crisis was it was like: "Look at me!  Look at MY midlife crisis!  It's more expensive and faster and louder than YOURS! HA!"  It was like he'd just come up with the midlife crisis concept all on his own.  But then that's how it is these days.  There's all sorts of things we hear about all our lives and think, "naw, not me. That's a big cliche."  And then when whatever it is happens to us, it's like we invented it.  It's a big cliche until it happens to you, innit?  Then the whole world's supposed to drop what it's doing and marvel at your First Man on the Moon Moment. 

Same thing with having kids.  These people apparently invented it.  And having a lousy marriage?  That too.  We were all suppoed to stop what we were doing and marvel at how like an emmy-winning pay cable series the whole thing was.  But my switching rooms was like switching from HBO to Showtime.  Actually, you want to know the truth, it was more like switching from USA to one of the premium channels.  That's how bad it was before.

Had I not made the switch I surely would have noticed how they had stopped raising their kids on their front lawn for the edification of their neighbors.  Yes, we were privy to all the precious milestones and life lessons.  Relaxing on the front porch of the orphanage, you never knew when you would be treated to a bit of Ward Cleaver Meets Tony Hawk wisdom from the old man. 

The world is a stage, I know.  And while you were sitting maybe twenty feet away, the fourth wall never came down.  The star of the show was always a consummate professional: never turning his back to his audience, using his stage-voice so that even those in the balcony (or the garret, as the case may be) wouldn't miss a line.  Neighbors do like to perform for one another, don't they?  Sometimes you can guess what's going on backstage, sometimes not.  

I don't want to sound like I don't like any of my neighbors here.  I do.  Especially the elderly and housebound.  Yoga Girl is OK in my book.  She comes home from work and does a little yoga out in the back yard behind a tall hedge, weather permiting.  I'm down with that.  The best neighbors are quiet neighbors.  Mimes, for example, make excellent neighbors, in my experience. 

And that's what was so nice about Batman.  Quiet as a little mime most of the time.  And chill.  Superchill.  Not one of these high-strung Fancy-Feast-eating little queens who expects to be waited on and served his meals in a champagne glass.  He was still feral enough to feel, dammit! And he belonged to no one.  Ask anyone in the 'hood.  This neighborhood — our block at least — belonged to him.  Everyone knew him by name.  Everybody offered him a little something whenever he dropped in.  Because everybody knew there'd be no hard feelings if they didn't.  He'd be back around.  Maybe we could chill later.   

But he did have people. But they were the type of people who didn't seem to care where he was unless they got wind that he was somewhere he was loved better than at home.  Then you could count on them dropping in to lecture you that he didn't belong to you, he belonged to them.  As if he couldn't choose who he belonged to himself. 

Here there'd be an ice storm, and he'd be locked out.  He'd come over to our place and sit out the storm here.  Sometimes he'd be here two or three days.  Did his people ever come after him, or even inquire after him?  No.  But when you delivered him to their door, it was like, "well, I hope you didn't feed him.  He's on a special diet." 

Truth is, they had a spare house cat, and a dog, so it seemed to me like they figured if they lost one, they were still in pretty good shape, petswise. 

To be clear, I never felt ownership.  I never felt like he was mine, or ours.  But, I don't know, I don't think it's too weird to say that sometimes you feel a real connection to a pet, and develop a nice rapport.  You understand each other.  You do, somehow.  You enjoy interacting.  Maybe seeing them is one of those purely gratuitous small, good things in your day.  And you need those.  To feel connected.  To balance out the cancer of misanthropy all around you.

I don't want to give the impression that our relationship was one-sided, but Batman was kind of my furry little Xanax.  Sometimes he would come in just for a little tuna.  Sometimes he wanted to hang.  It was fine either way.  I got over any feelings of resentment that I might have had that he was in it for the tuna long ago.  Sometimes it was a quick snack — in and out — others it was a social call.  We'd sit together and watch a little Oprah, or whatever happened to be on.  Just chill.  Just align our Alpha waves and be.  Together.  He was a little master.  A little Buddha.

And then.  Apparently Mid-life Crisis Guy got him in the divorce, and trundled him off to Teale Square, and has him locked in the house 24-7.  Because you know if he wasn't locked in the house, he'd be back on the tuna train in no time flat.  But already the neighborhood ecology is changing.  His evil twin — his name's Byron or something — he has a human name — Byron's been coming around.  He's a fatter, mustachioed version of Batman, probably from the same litter.  And he's posing as his brother to try and get on the tuna train, too.  Creep.  Usurper.  Not on your life.

How did we get caught in the middle of this divorce?  That's what I want to know.  It's always the children, pets, and neighbors who suffer, innit?