The New Fillmore

She turned her newspaper articles into a book.

AFTER OUR FRIEND William died, we helped empty his house and put it on the market. His downstairs tenant was moving, and the pregnant cat that lived mostly under the house and on the street was left without a home.

It turned out no one wanted a pregnant cat — not the nearby Pets Unlimited, nor the SPCA, nor anybody else. So we took her home. Then she had 11 kittens — on 7/11, no less. This did not seem lucky, at least not for us, now with a dozen cats.

Although she was busy enough already, eating and nursing and grooming, again and again and again, we put her to work writing for the neighborhood newspaper. Her nametag — and byline — said simply Saralee. It turned out she was a talented writer with a gift for delicate phrasing and an eye for the wry detail.

“I’ve called this beautiful neighborhood home my entire life — more than two years now, although a proper lady never tells her age,” she began her first story.

These were not her first kittens. “A moment of ardor with an attentive tabby left me with eight kittens to tend — and me just a kitten myself,” she wrote. “No sooner had the kids left the nest than I was out the window again. A small partay with a cool gray long-haired tomcat and I soon found myself with nine little ones this time.”

A visit to the vet capped her prolific output at 28 kittens. Her stories in the New Fillmore made motherhood sound like a joy. “I have to say, this might be my most beautiful brood yet,” she wrote.

She told her story so well that all of her kittens found new homes — and, in the process, we became related by cat to many of our neighbors. Her kids would write on Mother’s Day and 7/11. It was a lucky day after all. Nearly everywhere we went — to a local restaurant, store, church or coffee shop — we’d get an update on Saralee’s kids.

She turned her stories into a book, available on Amazon. And she blossomed into a beautiful and classy Miss Lady, with a lipstick pink collar and heart-shaped nametag.

Saralee died on July 28 after a short illness. She will be missed by many in the neighborhood — and in the literary world.

— Thomas Reynolds

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Monty on a visit to Chouquet’s on Fillmore.

MONTY HAS A SWAGGER. It’s a swagger of self-assuredness, a wiggle. It’s the wiggle-swagger that only a noble and confident West Highland Terrier can have. That was exactly the swagger he wiggled on his recent Big Day Out.

Monty’s best friend, Alison Carlson, was having work done on their home in the neighborhood. Contractors were in and out the door when one of them left it open, and Monty had the idea that he wanted a breath of fresh air. He decided on Chouquet’s, at Fillmore and Washington, where he knows the outdoor terrace well. He walked along the sidewalk unchaperoned, chest-out and proud. He made it to the orange-colored table Alison normally sits at and curled up underneath, unconcerned about the lunchtime diners with confused and worried expressions.

Longtime Chouquet’s staffer Pamela Gioe, who knows Monty well, brought him a bowl of water. Monty lapped it up, squinting in the sun. Luckily, Monty wears a handsome nametag around his neck, and Pamela was able to find Alison’s contact number and call. Unperturbed and feeling right at home, Monty remained curled up under his usual table and laid there Buddha-like until Alison zipped over in a cab to take him home.

It was the perfect rescue ruined only by lack of danger.

— Mark Fantino

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Kelly on Fillmore, a portrait of Kelly Johnson by Anne Ruth Isaacson

NEIGHBORHOOD ICON Kelly Johnson, a steady presence on the corner of Fillmore and Sacramento for many years, plans to die in early May. Wracked by terminal illness, he has invoked California’s new End of Life Option Act. After a final few weeks of celebrating with friends, he says May 7 will be his last day on Fillmore, where he has lived since 1969.

EARLIER: “Kelly’s Corner”

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