by Addison Zeller Maarten Zuidhoorn I don’t remember how to spell her Norwegian name, but it means Mouse-Mouth, and I picture her as a low raincloud pushing through ferns, electric within. A gray cat, bony, black stripes down her back and tail. Obviously old from the way she moved — as if a leg hadn’t set — and her leaden fur that looked rained on. She came down the side of the fjord a couple months before I visited Dad in Norway. Perhaps she’d guarded an apple or cherry orch