The prompt from yesterday's workshop: Write about your morning routine from the point of view of your pet. And so, once again, Oscar observes how the world doesn't conform to his expectations.
This morning, Oscar, our bulky tabby, stretched out of his thick curl behind my knees and then climbed up my legs, arranging himself along the ridgeline of my body, pinning me in a kind of wrestlers move created by his weight and almost savage intent on getting breakfast and then outside. First he nuzzles and then he glares, restless, needing the Comptroller of the Cupboard, the Doorman of the Door to stir and attend to him.
Ahem he seems to say, with every shift of his considerable bulk, ahem!. Why are you still abed, with the morning larks a-buzzing and the dawn gilding the slight horizon? What is this snoozing, when squirrels are beginning their taunting dance and I must attend and chase? Up up, lazy bones, get a move on! Okay, so maybe they aren’t larks, maybe they are finches and winter sparrows, but I must remind them who is the Boss of the Lawn!
And now why must you spend so much time in the water closet, that place of Growls and Gurgles? What gods are you appeasing before you stagger to the location of bitter smells, the Grinder of Beans and Clatter? What is up with you people?
I implore you and your thick legs, I rub them with my most endearing pheromones of pleasure and appeasement. I watch your every move; I trouble your legs with my double-cross leg-weaving to guide you to the Big White Doors that hold the most deliciousness of treats, the Salmon Pate, the Tuna Snackerals I so desire. Like right now! My mouth waters, I reach out to remind you with my Sharp Reminders which way to go, not toward the door to shoo me out, no no no, but across the kitchen to the Big White Doors.
Dang howdy, that was fast! Up by the scruff of my neck and now I am outside, in the damp, in the cold, no Tuna Snackerals, no Salmon Pate, just the graze of my Reminders in your salty, marbled flesh.
That was a mistake, yes, yes, but not something I can’t recover from. A well timed thud against the door should work. Thud! Um, no. There’s some anger behind that door, in those grumpy phrases. Okay, up on the ledge under the window, a few scritches on the screen. That always cheers you up, right?
Um, nope. Not sure why I deserved that howl, that slam of window. I switch my tail to indicate my displeasure with this whole process, but I’m beginning to worry that I might be served chum - outside, on a metal plate, with pickles, like a prisoner.
The wind is coming up, fluffing up the fur along my flanks. I offer my most piteous Meow of Apology. Now I need in, I want in, I’ll be patient, I swear. A splatter of rain drops, a fine mist floating across the grass, a heaviness in the dark thick air, a dampness, a pressure. Okay, okay, I’ll be good, I’ll behave, just let me in.
I raise my paw but don’t scratch, I squeeze and pulse my eyes, to become the greenest of greens, as I’ve heard you say. Open the door!!! Open the door!! Jiminey Crickets, where did this all go wrong? From a warm bed to the bitter cold sideyard in less time than it takes me to stalk a squirrel. Oh woe is me, oh woooooh meohhhhh is me!
