Humansitting
One piece and one poem.
My name is Ginny. I'm 7 years old. The human I watch over went on a trip far away. She knows how much I enjoy having a human to watch over, and how important it is to me. So before she left, she brought me to stay with a friend of hers, who had no one to watch over him.
I liked it there a lot. I had my litter box and my toys and the magic machine that spits out my food. It felt a lot like home.
He lives in a long, narrow apartment with a big, cozy living room in the front. Sometimes he opens the door to the outside and fresh air comes in, if it's not too cold outside. (The cold doesn't bother me much, but he's a bit sensitive.) The air feels nice on my fur and helps me sleep. Not that I need much help with getting to sleep, or with finding time to sleep; it's pretty much the thing I do best.
When he stretches out on the couch to read or nap (reading often becomes napping), I stretch out on him. He seems to enjoy feeling the weight and warmth of my body on his chest and legs. He gets calmer. I feel bolstered by the repetition of it, the sensations of lifting up and drifting down, in tune with his breathing, and I think to myself, "I am a protector." I uphold him while he upholds me (literally!).
After a couple days in his house, I finally felt like I understood all of my new duties. I was resting on the kitchen counter, on my favorite dish-drying mat. I was just taking it easy, like I do, when I noticed a tiny movement underneath the oven. Wouldn't you know it—out came a mouse!
"He didn't tell me there were mice here!" I thought. It's a good thing I happen to be the champion mouser of the whole entire world. I leaped down to the floor as fast as I could. Not fast enough: it hurried under the door of the furnace room before I could snatch it. I must have been yelping at it pretty loud, because he came running down the hall and saw me clawing at the door. But by the time he opened it, the mouse was gone.
How dare this deviant creature infiltrate the home of my new beloved human! "Under no circumstances," I thought, "will I tolerate this personal affront." I swore to annihilate it. (I become so literary when I'm discoursing of mice and men. Look at me: I'm flushed!) From that moment on, for hours and hours, I kept watch in front of the oven, resolving never to slacken until I could expel this mouse for good.
The foul interloper never reappeared. Obviously, I scared it away. I'd completed my task, yet I was left feeling unfulfilled. How I would have loved to [ed. note: lengthy and graphic descriptions of mouse-catching redacted]. It's all for the glory of my human, of course; it's strictly for his benefit that I would have absolutely [redacted] the miserable wretch into a [redacted].
Thankfully, that was the last threat to my human's safety that occurred on my watch. Soon my primary human returned, she took me back to our home, and I reflected I'd missed both of them very much.
Now I feel like I have two humans. (He still comes over to visit me!) Before I went home, I made him promise to keep taking care of himself. I encouraged him to find a permanent protector—preferably one who is as contemptuous of mice as I am. Once the new protector arrives, I am happy to show them the ropes.
Will he really be okay? I suppose that's not for me to say. All a humble cat can do is her best, after all. But I believe in him. (And my best is pretty damn good.)
And The Trees Crane Their Necks Toward The Face Of The Sun
I
it’s called
a winter wonderland
because winter
is the time
and the place
for wonder
II
stuck in the house
no one on the street
nobody banging
at my door
nothing but birdsong
in the loving leaden air
my heart tracks
the sun’s transit
through the cold blue sky,
the bare trees watching
its movements
with arms upraised
in reverent prayer:
“It is you we serve; it is you we seek;
It is you who moves; it is you who drinks
from the well of the deep
where you spend every night,
and in the morning you speak
with the voice of the light.”