This is SO not about the guy whose screeching music hurts my ears.

Kenny G (how could anyone name a self-respecting cat Kenny G?) is a handsome, very fluffy black cat with elegant white markings who is in PetSmart prison waiting for someone to adopt him. He’s been there for a couple of months. I suppose he’s lucky that the people who found him took him to PetSmart instead of a shelter — after a couple of months, his options would have been “removed.”

He was first abandoned, along with his sister, when his parents moved and left them behind. When discovered, they were put up for adoption. I guess that was lucky for him, because at least they weren’t put in a shelter.

He was abandoned again by this sister when she was adopted. From that moment, Kenny G moved into his cage, relegated himself on his sleeping box and fate, and stayed bundled up sleeping. Because there was nothing else to do.

Then, two baby black and white kitties moved in. One was adopted almost immediately, and Kenny G recognized the loneliness in the remaining little 8 week-old orphan.

That’s when he took over. He adopted the kitty. He groomed her, and she’d roll over on her back to let him do his job. Totally trusting and adoring her new parent; after all, she’d never really known one. He stood over her while she napped, and wrapped himself around at night to keep her safe and protected. He never left the baby’s side. Both were so happy.

And then, the unthinkable happened — Or the obvious, if you’re familiar with pet adoption stories — the baby was adopted. Everyone loves a cute baby.

Kenny G was alone again. Back in his cage. Back on his box. Sleeping because there was nothing to do with his time in a place where there is no window sill to sit on, no birds or squirrels to watch with twitching tail, no spot of sunlight to bask in. No one to love. Abandoned. Alone. Again.

I love Kenny G. I want Kenny G.

I want to give him a place to live with window sills, and rays of sunshine, and kitty snacks along with an occasional bite of turkey or some other “people” food. He should have someone to lay on to watch TV or interrupt while they’re reading a book. Or a computer keyboard to nap on. And a bed to snuggle up with his human at night.

But I can’t do that. I don’t know where I live. I don’t know when I’m going to know where I live. And though being a vagabond is a lifestyle I’ve come to embrace, because it seems to be the life I’ve been handed, it can’t be Kenny G’s. Every time I go into PetSmart — for no other reason than to let Kenny G see me and know I’m there and I care. I pray I’ll go see him today and he won’t be in his cage because someone will have noticed this huge, handsome guy over the weekend and taken him home. But he’s an adult. If it happens at all, it’s going to take awhile.

And I started to think that Kenny G and I have a lot in common. Because of the Workers Comp case that’s kept me in jail in California, I have no options other than to find another job in this state or hope my book sells well and I can move onto a house boat in the Oakland Embarcadaro or get a mobile home and hit the road. Then, I could give Kenny G. a home. And I’d have one. I’m ready to know where I live.

Also, it hit me that I might — just might — be able to put my trust issues aside and give someone a chance to come into my life. It think I’m ready — but then again, where? How do I strike up a relationship with someone if I don’t even know where I live? Or how long I’ll be there?

I spent a good deal of time on the phone yesterday with my buddy Lynn Crislip and realized I miss having a BFF. Someone to go have a drink with — or go mining for gems — or be able to call just because I want to hear a human voice — or meet for lunch — or just bitch about stuff with. But moving all over the world hasn’t afforded me that gift. The high school friends I know are scattered all over the country. My friends from the military years are scattered all over the world, and since that was the time before computers and cell phones, I’ve lost them. The writing community I embraced in the Bay area have been converted from “friends” to “acquaintences” over the last four years of my absence — oh, sure, every now and then I go to one of their book signings and go out for drinks afterwards, but it’s not the same. In my three months in Vegas, the only adult conversations have been with people at the post office and at sports bars during the Thunder games. Ok, I’ve got to admit that’s fun since I’m the only Thunder fan in the room surrounded by Laker fans….who even start cheering for the Thunder in the last 3 minutes when they turn it on, take over the game, and win in the last 20 seconds

So for now, Kenny G and I have to speak to each other like he’s in the prison cell that owns him — through a glass wall. Paw to hand.

I want Kenny G.

But I’d have to change that damned name. Kenny G is SO wrong for a cat — it’s as strange a concept as any woman with a working uterus voting for Romney (let the screaming and bitching begin) —

I’m thinking Holmes. But then, I’d have to adopt Isis, too, and call her Watson. After all. Kenny G shouldn’t be alone again.

And for today, that’s it. See you tomorrow.