upon retiring
the tabby nestles herself against my hip, her head curled into her chest so it fits into my hand. she’s purring again – she’s always purring. the tuxedo cat stalks some unseen foe across the hardwood floor. or maybe she’s plotting another sadistic pass by the dogs who are crated for the night.
sweetie is snoring quietly from the futon. she’s sound asleep, propped up on her right elbow, supporting her head. glasses askew on her face. if i move them, she’ll say “no, i’m watching tv.” she’s already slept through three episodes of NCIS. they were reruns.
