She forgot to leave me the keys so I had to water the plants through the windows. When I finished, I sang to them as I had heard her do many times. I sang nursery rhymes: Rock-a-Bye Baby, Mary Had A Little Lamb, Hush Little Baby, etc. I stood on the porch and in the alley beside the house and sang softly. Some neighborhood cats came by to listen. At first, they didn’t bother me, but by the third song they had all taken the liberty of joining in. They cried and howled, in rhythm but way off-key.

The next door neighbor opened his window and stuck his gray, gnarled face out into the alley.

"What the hell is going on?" he shouted over the racket that the cats were making. "Who are you? What are you doing?"

I explained, but he was not impressed.

"The cats are singing along with you?" he challenged.

"Yes," I nodded. "I think they are."

"Then why are they still making all that noise? You’re not singing now."

I looked around and saw that while we talking, the number of cats had doubled. There were at least thirty of them, standing by the fence, sitting on the edge of the porch, sauntering through the alley. And they were all singing their hearts out.

"I don’t know," I admitted.

"Well, get them out of here," said the neighbor. "I can’t hear the television."

He pulled his head back inside and slammed the window shut.

"All right, enough!" I shouted at the cats. I waved my arms and kicked at them, but they just moved a little and kept on meowing. All the time, more and more cats were arriving. I grabbed a metal garbage can lid and banged it against the fence. Some of the cats jumped and moved away, but none left, and none stopped crying.

"What am I going to do?" I wondered.

I turned and saw a kid wearing a baseball cap standing on the sidewalk, staring into the alley.

"How’d you get them all to come?" he asked.

"I don’t know," I answered. "I was just singing to the plants. Now they won’t stop and the neighbors are complaining."

"Come look," said the kid, beckoning with his hand.

I walked out to the sidewalk and looked around. There were cats everywhere, coving the street. They were on stoops, in gardens, on the sidewalk, in the gutter, on top of cars, on fire escapes. They were all crying and slowly making their way to where I was standing. The noise was deafening. I had never realized how many different voices cats can have or how loud they can be.

"Oh God!" I exclaimed. "How am I going to get rid of them?"

Then the old man from next door came out of his house. He was wearing a worn-out light blue robe and his face was red with fury.

"I told you to get them out of here!" he yelled. "Do you want me to call the cops?"

"I’m sorry," I stammered. "I don’t know what’s happening. I tried to get them to leave but more and more are coming. You have to believe me. I didn’t mean for this to happen."

The man looked down at a tabby cat that was brushing against his leg. He gave it a kick. It flew a few feet, licked itself a little, stood, and started singing again.

"God damn it!" shouted the man. He stomped back inside.

I spent the next fifteen minutes yelling and shouting and batting at the cats in vain, while the kid watched, smiling.

Then the cops came. I told them what was happening. They didn’t quite believe me, but it was clear that I hadn’t done anything illegal. Just as I had been doing, they began trying to scare the cats away, shouting "Scat!" and "Get outta here!" When they realized that their efforts were failing, they called for backup. Soon there were five cop cars, a fire engine, and an animal control van on the street. They cordoned off the house and asked me to leave.

I walked home, making my way against the current of the ever-rising river of cats.

A few days later I returned to her house. The cats were gone and everything was back to normal. Silently and with an anxious eye on the window of the neighbor’s house, I watered the plants. This time I didn’t sing.