Morning Milk

Morning Milk

Image © Stephanie Elaine Cavanaugh

Image © Stephanie Elaine Cavanaugh

By Stephanie Elaine Cavanaugh - http://stephaniecavanaugh.com

When you wake, it’s still dark, but the faintest glow of sunrise is beginning to creep in the window. You know the time instinctively, two and a half hours past when you curled up to sleep. You stand on all fours, arch your back in the customary morning stretch, eyes squinted, ears back, nose crinkled, opening your mouth wide and sticking out your tongue in a yawn, as you simultaneously push whiskers and front paws forward, rear in the air. Aahhhhh. You indulge in the full joy of the 8 seconds, feeling your every muscle coming back to life.

You perk your ears, but hear no sound past the normal breathing of the old house: the tick-tocking of the wall clock, a scurrying roach in the kitchen, the groan of the heater, the creak of the window pane as the winter wind hisses and beats against it, the whooshing of the ceiling fan pushing the dry heated air around that makes your fur either stick straight out or cling to your body; like some sort of sorcery. You hate that dry air. Every time the human touches you in gives you an annoying shock, always stinging your sensitive nose or ears like a bee. You find it so annoying you limit your interactions with the human during this time of year.

No other sounds. You annoyingly walk towards the bedroom, knowing the lazy human is still sleeping. That means your morning milk is late yet again. “Meow!” Not even a stir. “Meoooow!”, you try again as you jump onto the bed. No movement. The human is lying motionless on its stomach, face resting on one cheek, mouth slightly open, drool seeping onto the pillow. Lazy human. You walk across the bed, stepping hard on the backs of the human’s thighs, walking up onto its rear and back, purposefully digging in your claws ever so slightly. You reach out your right paw and swat at the long fur on the human’s head, again, “Meooooow!” The human groans and rolls over, as you jump off its back onto the bed.

It opens its eyes, crusted with sleep, and looks at you. “Not yet Mr. Fuzz, it’s too early,” it groans. You hate that name. Where is the dignity in “Mr. Fuzz”? How can you stand proud with a name like that? You try again, this time a stern double swat to its face, claws retracted. “Meoooooooooow!” The human sighs, gazes at you with a loving annoyance. You gaze back with the best ‘I’m too cute to resist’ face you can muster, followed by a high-pitched, “Mmrrr”. Really, you find this human laziness annoying. Why wasn’t it already up, with your milk ready? The human sits up, yawns, and scratches its leg with its pathetic looking claws. You wonder how it could ever defend itself with such measly things. It stands and walks to the room where it uses the strange magic litter box without litter. You follow, and stare at the human while it does its business, wondering how the magic contraption works and why yours isn’t magic. You follow the human into the kitchen, circling its feet with excitement and anticipation as it walks. You can almost taste the milk now. “Careful Mr. Fuzz!” The human nearly trips over you. It’s so uncoordinated. It reaches for the door to the large box that keeps things cold …


About the Author:

Stephanie Elaine Cavanaugh - Hi, I'm Stephanie ... pleasure to become virtually acquainted. Please note the views and opinions communicated here are my own and not representative of any particular group or organization.

Interests, ever-evolving:  Photography, painting, art, science, medicine, astronomy, yoga, travel, the world, culture, language, education, women's rights, human rights, making the world a kinder, more beautiful place.


Location Baghdad

Location Baghdad

Poison

Poison

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