Jazz, Con Artist Cat

The cat circles me. 

Happy to have me to herself, spoiled with more petting, scratching and laser tag

Until I shoo her away because her hedonism exceeds mine.

Having witnessed her elaborate Cleopatra-like grooming sessions, I trust her ability to self-soothe.

And I need my other hand to type.

Finally, she plops at my feet, glancing up with those conniving green eyes.

Head-butting occasionally and rolling onto her side with one paw outstretched.

Look at me, her purrs beg.

I smile, but keep pecking. This blog isn’t going to write itself.

She rolls back, trots over and studies her empty bowl.

We’re sheltering in place, not swelling up in place I tell her.

Drink some water.

She meows cat curses, I’m sure.

A professional grifter though, she tries a few more times.

I don’t understand her math, she doesn’t understand mine.

Immune to human and animal whining, I wait her out.

She peaks up once more, with a few of those hard blinks, her Morse code for do what I want human

It’s been three years and you still haven’t trained me, so give up, I hard-blink back.

She curls into a ball and commits to staring knowing this irritates me, but I gawk back and her eyes drop.

As an afterthought, I ask “What would you be doing if I weren’t home?”

But you are, she seems to telepath, overcome with drowsiness now.

I turn up the jazz, which is also her name, and write on.

She drifts into cat dreams.

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