My dad steers the car down the alley after I drop off my second best friend from belly dance. I was a good class; I'll have the stressed muscles to prove it in the morning. Particularly around the hips. The alley is paved with gravel and coved in pot holes. When the turn is complete, a cat appears. The brave thing prances down the center of the thin grey street, as if our car isn't there. It has the same bravery that my French vanilla cat Sneaky possesses. The assumption that cars will carefully avoid their small bodies as they do whatever it is that cats do when people aren't looking. But this cat is not french vanilla; it's more like a cow cat, only not fat enough. Its eyes glow as it comes even closer. My dad slows down, carefully watching it. The small thing continues prancing down the small stretch of stone, never slowing down. As if in compromise, it finally moves to the right of the road as my dad slowly moves left to avoid it. And, not for the first time, I'm left wondering how cats can be so confident. How on earth could a cow cat, 20 times smaller than our sedan prance so easily right into its headlights? How could a French vanilla pussy sit in the middle of the road as a six wheeler comes right up to it? How does that silly cat brain process our metal monstrosities as things not even worth the bother?