MindSpinner

The cat snoozes next to the laptop on the bed where I sit writing. There is the erratic, staccato rhythm of keys and, just beyond, his soft breathing, a rhythmic rising and falling of fur. He is gray and white, a cow cat, with eyes the green of Granny Smith apples.

He sleeps through mornings and sunny afternoons. At night he hurtles through the house for no reason at all beyond than the unfettered joy of hurtling and leaping, which he purports to be reason enough.

He insists that the blinds of the bedroom window be raised six inches before bedtime so that he can watch the night. When he sees birds or bees or bugs or flies, he cries like a rusty hinge, as if there’s a door inside opening to instinct and desire.

He wants his food at 9:00 and 6:00, even on Saturdays. He likes only expensive scratching posts, mainly couches. He doesn’t want holding, only nearness, and stroking, especially with a brush. He remembers his mother’s rough tongue.

He is here when everyone else is gone, which will be the case tomorrow. I lay my cheek on his fur to feel softness - the warmth of a thing alive - and to hear the purring in his middle - a lullaby of contentment.

I’d like to learn his gifts for napping at noon, hurtling just because, watching the night, and purring in my middle.