the cat wakes on the couch in the sun. he stretches off the fatigue that is only rewarded to those who have slept for too long and makes his way to the dish on the floor in the kitchen. if it is empty, he pleads for biscuits, rubbing up against the legs of those in the house, well aware of what they’re willing to do to win his affection and company. sometimes they don’t catch on and he needs to cry. sometimes they know just by the jingle of the bell round his neck that he is looking for something (attention or food) that they will happily give. I pour another cup of biscuits into the dish on the floor and refill the glass he drinks from. tonight he’ll sit by my side on the couch to assure me that he appreciates what I do, that the care and the love is reciprocated. tonight I’ll hear him meow outside my parents door whilst mine is wide open and waiting for him.
on the stove I make eggs, which I scramble and serve on toast for my parents. I still don’t like the taste and I still love preparing them.
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