Morning Routine

In a typical human way, I suppose she's no longer beautiful. She doesn't paint her face anymore, her shoes aren't tall and her clothes are soft and loved, not slick or stiff. Not graceful. She walks slowly, each step deliberate, each step anticipated like she was hunting, but she's not. She's on her way to the kitchen for cereal, or chocolate. There's no challenge in this food. So I weave between her feet until she feels accomplished and agile in the hunt. She doesn't say thank you with a pet across my forehead. It's hard for her to bend down. Instead, she nudges me away with the purple cane spotted with flat flowers. We both feel accomplished. I follow on her heels until she's standing in the kitchen in case it's cereal and I need to remind her to pour a little extra milk for me.

A wisp of graying hair falls between her glasses and her eyes when she opens the fridge. She brushes it away with a hint of agitation. A hint of the fire she used to have when her hair was flaming ginger. I didn't know her then, but there are stories in the house if you listen while you pretend to sleep in the sliver of morning sunlight. That's when she and her male tell stories most. Not at night. At night they just watch the news and care about things they do nothing about.

She lifts up a thin bar of chocolate and we both stare at it. Her gaze drifts from the chocolate bar to her belly then back to the chocolate bar. She sighs and puts it back in the fridge exchanging it for something not milk. An egg. I rub against her ankles, reminding her of our morning routine. I can feel the cool air against my fur. It feels nice, so I stick my nose deeper between the fruit and close my eyes. She pushes me back with the purple cane so she can shut the door. I'm tempted to bite her ankle, but refrain. She wants the egg as much as I do, I can tell by the disappointment on her face.

"We're both getting fluffy," she says to me. She says it like it's a bad thing. Like her tummy wasn't the most perfect place to spend an afternoon. It was warm and lovely and if I purred loud enough I could feel happiness vibrate back to me. I sit down in protest and try to wipe the disgusted look off my face with the back of my paw. I have already decided I'm not going to talk to her until lunch. At lunch, it's ice cream or a ham sandwich. Maybe then she'll come to her senses and realize how beautiful to me she is and we can both be happy again.