Paulie

Paulie came all the way from Egypt.

The owner brought her over himself. He does not talk much about the logistics. Just that she made the trip, she survived it, and now she lives in his shop on the counter near the register.

I asked how she ended up here. He shrugged.

"She's my cat," he said. "I brought her."

That was the whole explanation.

Paulie sits on the counter most days. She watches the transactions. She stretches across the lottery tickets when she feels like it. Customers reach over her to pay. She does not move. She has learned that she does not have to.

The owner estimates she brings in $300 to $400 a day in extra business.

"People come for the cat," he said. "They stay for the snacks."

He is not exaggerating. We watched it happen.

A group of teenagers walked in, took turns holding Paulie, bought nothing, and left. Five minutes later, a woman came in, photographed the cat from three angles, then grabbed a bag of chips and a drink on her way out. A man stopped at the door, asked if this was "the cat store," and came inside when the owner nodded.

The cat is the draw. The purchases follow.

The owner talks about Paulie like part of the business. People come in for the cat, take photos, and often leave with snacks. Paulie takes up the register anyway.

The spot is warm. The customers are friendly. Nobody rushes her when she decides the counter is hers.