Percival Sherlock, My Cat
Around five AM on weekday mornings,
after my shower and after I've dressed
myself for work by the dim, secondary
light of the closet, I finally arrive, shoes
in hand, to this moment in which I sit
on the corner of the bed and find that
you are there, reliably there, waiting
for me to scratch behind your pointed
ears, back and around and under your
chin, until you flop down, your head
hanging over the edge, leaving dots of
cat drool and totally relaxed and limp
while I run my hand gently over the
length of your body, down to the very
tip of your tail that flicks a slow and
contented flick, and I flatten you like
a pillow, I smooth you like a blanket,
I roll you out like dough, imagining I
am easing you into the day, as if this
were some long-standing agreement,
some contract I had signed, some soft
rite that I observe with devotion even
though it takes no more than a couple
of minutes, and ends when you say it
does- if I stop too soon, you bite, and
if I go too long, you bite harder- so I
am careful to pay attention to the cues,
the width of your eyes, the slapping
of your tail, I get it, we all have lines
that we draw, limited patience. It's no
wonder people used to worship cats.
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