The Cat Came Back

I woke up this morning after one.

You don’t understand. I haven’t slept in this late for one quarter of one year. I have a baby daughter who is usually up by six. There was a dull aching pressure behind my eyes, like dehydration after drinking all night, like a hang-over, like trying to quite coffee… Ah, there lay the problem: coffee. I was over 7 hours late drinking my morning cup-o-thickness. I slothenly descended the stairs, my eyes pulsing in pain with every step, reminding myself I should never sleep in again. It was just like the empty promises I used to make to myself about too many drinks.

Anyway, as I was filling the electric kettle with filtered water, I noticed something quite unusual. The cat’s bowl was still full of food. Now, you have to see my cat to understand this, but she NEVER leaves the bowl that full. She likes to eat. And that’s being kind.

“SHE LIKES TO EAT. AND THAT’S BEING KIND. ”

Flash back to yesturday morning. I’m looking for a shirt to wear that isn’t dirty. It’s the middle of a hot dirty smoggy muggy summer in Toronto and shirts are in demand. I remember opening the closet in the spare room. I didn’t find any shirts. I closed the door. I closed the door. I closed the door.

I ran up the stairs, ignoring the searing needles pushing through my eyes, ignoring the boiling water that will soon become my friendly joe, and open yesterday’s closet door. Long pause. Then slowly, and deliberately, the cat walks out of the crack, past my feet without looking up at me, and descends the staircase.

I decided not to examine the state of the closet. I had more pressing thing to do. Like make breakfast. Or maybe lunch.

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