Meander

Chanson of Cat.

The long hard dry stretch of summer sets in, baking the air. As February is to winter, August is to summer. An act of endurance. A time of waiting until whatever emerges does so, or dies. The rain of Monday transient, however welcome.

This morning while still in bed, I scritched Eleanor's head and chin and she rubbed inside her ear with one of my fingers. So of course Zeppo flopped beside us. I turned enough to pet his upturned belly with my other hand, but he pushed it away with all four paws and claws extended in warning. I let my hand be pushed away, but held on to one of the back paws. And gently rubbed the pads, to the point that he stretched his foot, to get toes massaged. Both cat's tails meandered together.

A perfect moment.