A few nights ago, Xy & I walked past Jackson Square with our friend David Bryan after coffee and beignets.
The park is locked at night, but through the bars we’ve often observed cats — lots of cats — cavorting or merely lolling about. I’ve counted as many as twenty cats within spitting distance of the gate on St. Ann Street. Indeed, I’ve never seen so many cats in such close proximity.
But on this particular night, there was nary a feline in sight. We wondered aloud: “Where are all the cats?”
Being that we were in the Quarter, we didn’t have to wait for an answer. A dishevelled woman who happened to be shuffling past replied immediately: “Underground. There are tunnels.”