As I open my eyes, the door is now slightly ajar.
Today, as most days, she is first up, stealthy;
intelligent, alert, and sometimes a jolly nuisance.
This cat, my precious, my bête noir.
Dashes through the door to her Shangri-La:
to bound, not, as you might expect, onto the bed,
but the desk, stepping gently over a bizarre
muddle of journals and pens, the repertoire,
the stockpile that is my life at the desk,
and having hurdled some, and nudged others aside,
sniffing out any overnight changes; reaching around her
I blearily feel for the window, (there’s a built-in window
next to that) so that I go to the next, lift the handle; both
now open to her slight size and she makes of this her cat
roundabout, back and forth: acting the newly arrived (via
window.) Who? Not me, who scratched at the door, her steady
eye through the curtains now seems to say. How reassuring, for
whom, puss or me? Sun on her back or a little rain I know with her
to greet me, this, or any other, it will always be a good day.
Benita H. Kape © 7.4.2015