Dinnertime Routine

I see you there, sleeping heavily. I call, but you do not awaken. I call again. One ear quivers slightly. One yellow-green eye opens, a mere slit of inquisitive brightness. Then there is a subtle shifting, a determined resettling, as you decide you will not be moving just now. I sigh, my lap lonely, and return to my book. You fall asleep once more, small feline snores – more like sighs of contentment – drifting through the peaceful air.

A while later, I am hungry. Time to make dinner. You do not stir while I chop vegetables, pour wine. You do not stir while I boil water and defrost meat. You do not stir while I prepare my single-portion meal.

Moving quietly now, I take a tin of your favourite food from the cupboard, easing the lid off as quietly as possible. Silently, I empty the tin into one of your dishes and turn to place it on the floor. You are already there! Your exquisite sense of smell had alerted you, the moment the lid came off, and you had oiled, unnoticed, across the floor, anticipatory. I can never prepare your food in secret, try as I might.

You begin to eat with enjoyment, purring, and I carry my plate over to the table.

We eat, companionably.