The Cat Lady

I saw her again last week on the way home, pulling into a spot behind Home Depot on the quiet secret thoroughfare that cuts over to Mt. Moriah Road. Truckers sometimes sleep overnight there in their cabs.
Occasionally she's there in the morning, letting the cat roam around on a leash. A small camp of homeless people live in the nearby woods, having relocated since the area by the new Marriott was clear cut. You can see smoke from their campfires and just a glimpse of a tent from the street.

I first saw her when stopping for coffee at the BP on the way to the old new job. At first I thought she was traveling, the front seat of the crossover SUV full of hanging clothes. A tabby Maine Coon looking cat perched on the back seat and I spotted a litter box. The vehicle was clean and newish. We passed in the doorway, her out, me in. She was trim, blonde, wearing Privos. Then I saw her several more times, same gas station, same time.

And it dawned on me that she was not traveling. She was living in her car.

She is not a regular on the intersection corners. In the homeless hierarchy, she's a tier or two above those folks in a tent. She's got mobility, a safety edge, and protection from weather. She probably has a job. Her clothes are organized and seem to be clean, her car is neat. She's got money for gas, to do laundry, and buy cat food. But not enough for an apartment.

I think about her as I drive home, less than a mile away; think about living in my car with three cats; about how close I am to that (aren't we all really?).
It scares me.