Blackie’s fur is damp. It’s also slightly sticky, quite unlike its usual silky sleekness. I run my hand down to his tail, and catch a nibblet of moisture on its base, an almost imperceptible burst of wet between my fingers. Aha. Someone has been drinking from the faucet again.
I’m on the small couch, sitting on my newest rug. (One of the four I handwove for them, which they refuse to avail themselves to.) Curly is, as almost always, curled up against my leg. He’s looking window-ward, slumped with the world-weariness of a cat who’s asked twice for his food but not yet got it.
Poppy, poppy, poppy. Is he secretly my favourite because he is so beautiful? I’ve always said he’s gorgeous and he knows it. Tonight is no exception. After condescending to nuzzle my foot for a few too-short moments, he’s gone off to array himself fetchingly in my direct line of vision. He does not look my way, seemingly aware that much of his beauty lies in his irresistable profile, tipped by a candy-pink nose.