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.