It was Tosca's apartment, really. The living room was uncarpeted for greater ease of sliding and chasing, should she care to bat her catnip mice under the sofa. Two large cardboard boxes also lay on the hardwood floor, should she care to lurk inside. A pole with perches set at different heights stood before the picture window, should she care to survey the passing scene. And while two scratching posts were available for her use, the state of the furniture clearly proclaimed that she preferred to sharpen her claws on the upholstery. The only concession to her besotted keeper's own taste and convenience was an elaborate sound system flanked by rows of vinyl recordings of baroque and nineteenth-century music, heavy on the Italian composers.

I looked in on Edmund and Tosca about once a week, sometimes bringing a new CD, sometimes just bringing faculty gossip. It had been twenty years since the old gentleman retired, but he liked to keep abreast of departmental politics even though he'd outlived all the professors of his generation, and besides, he enjoyed having me to talk to. The gray tabby would jump onto his lap and demand to be petted, with special attention to the white bib under her chin, and Edmund would tell me all about how clever she was, which operas she liked best, and what the vet had said at her last checkup.