He watches me from just outside the
window, nose
pressed against glass. I stare back. He opens his mouth to make a sound
and yet, I hear nothing. It's not cold outside today, not if you are
wrapped up in a fur coat as he is, and I know he is in no danger of
freezing. I find myself entranced by this creature that depends so much
upon me for survival that I wonder, if the tables were reversed, would
he keep me on the outside looking in? I smile at imagined acts of
feline revenge against me. The cold nights. An unreliable source of
food. Long hours of disappearance. No respect for gifts on the
doorstep. None of this is likely, though. If I were the pet, and
sometimes I think this may be true anyway, he would no doubt rush to
the door, let me in and curl up on my lap just to keep me warm. He
would understand that I just don't have the stomach or fortitude for
the world of rodents and Mother Nature. He has
a different kind of spirit than I do. Me? I just stare back through the
glass and write a story about him looking in at me and do nothing more.
I have a story to write. He'll just have to wait.
