A man and his cat
In my house there is little difference between me and the cat. We sleep until noon, lazily arise, drink some milk and look out the kitchen window at the flurry of activity at the bird feeder in the backyard.
We walk through the various rooms, opening drapes and raising blinds. We look out the windows and watch the wind whip up and see the clouds roll over the sun.
We look at each other and our looks say, Well that’s enough for now. And back to bed we go.
It is raining now and we lie in bed (I lie in the bed, the cat on the bed) and listen to the drumming of rain on the roof. A good sound for the soul. I tell the cat that later I will read to her some more of Plato’s Dialogues and her eyes half close as though to say, Man, that is so dry, I prefer stuff like you read yesterday, The Mad Trapper of Rat River.
One fearless cat
The rain is a torrent now and the trees that surround the house thrash about. Tree limbs fall—CRASH! One lands on the roof of the house. The cat looks up but she is unperturbed. She is a fearless cat, unlike some cats who would hide under the bed if a tree branch crashed onto the roof. But not this cat.
I should have named her Beowulf, except she is a dame and Beowulf was the manliest of men. Not that it would have mattered since no one can tell the gender of a cat at casual glance and this cat of mine actually looks more like and has the demeanor of a manly cat, so from now on to hell with protocol, I’m going to call her Beowulf.
The excitement of the crashing tree branch has subsided and Beowulf has reassumed a sleeping position. I slide further down into the bed. I am thinking about my wife, as I do every day but particularly this day, the day she left the earth, one year and eight months ago, her hand warm in mine, until it wasn’t and life slipped away and I’m still on the earth listening to the rain on the roof and coming closer to her every day.