He sips water from my glass, this creature whose semantics I understand, laps so quietly I must nuzzle him to hear. When thirsty, he listens, holds his nose just above the surface of his own bowl, interprets it as if he'd studied Emoto's Hidden Messages in Water, though of course it does not speak to him of Chuzenji Lake springs.
But my water. Ah! He eyes it dripping slowly from my bathroom faucet, waits for my act of devotion: to see his longing, lift him gently where his arthritic limbs can no longer jump, and wait Zen-like while he drinks.
We have created a language where intonation is everything. My voice rises, rings like a temple bell; I call him mameki-neko. He has learned to mimic with a chirp: "You are my goddess of happiness, my Kissyoten" I imagine he is saying.
He beckons with his moonstone eyes, moves toward the bed. This is the syntax of our relationship: in his sleep the soft fricatives of his snores punctuate my dreams. If he dozes on the couch, I am restless until he jumps up next to my pillow.
I consider catelepathy.
I spoon with him, hold my hand around his belly. When he awakens, he rolls onto his back, eyes darkened, paws folded as in prayer, inviting my cheek to rest on his head, his purrs matched by my own.
But my water. Ah! He eyes it dripping slowly from my bathroom faucet, waits for my act of devotion: to see his longing, lift him gently where his arthritic limbs can no longer jump, and wait Zen-like while he drinks.
We have created a language where intonation is everything. My voice rises, rings like a temple bell; I call him mameki-neko. He has learned to mimic with a chirp: "You are my goddess of happiness, my Kissyoten" I imagine he is saying.
I consider catelepathy.
I spoon with him, hold my hand around his belly. When he awakens, he rolls onto his back, eyes darkened, paws folded as in prayer, inviting my cheek to rest on his head, his purrs matched by my own.
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