For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffrey

For she is the servant of no god but herself, and perhaps me, if she considers me a god, and considers biting a form of service.

For she has a man’s name, but is not a man, nor a tomcat, but a queen.

For she watches me.

For she watches me like a spy from the other room in the darkness with her shape a darker shadow within the shadows.

For she watches me like a guard, hobbling my movements with her form between my ankles.

For she purrs when she is happy.

For she when she is happy she drools and, in so doing, waters the desiccated blankets.

For she chews on the blankets, giving them moisture at cost to her own mouth, when she desires to purr.

For holes to her are holy, and the blankets are subject to her proselytizing.

For the night is to her a world deserved of scratching.

For the walls are subject to her scratching and her nails create a most beautiful music.

For she wakes us with her music, for music without an audience is an affront to god.

For her music is often a message that calls us to her feeding.

For she can feed herself, and does so throughout the day, and when the food is done she licks her bowl to a mirrored shine.

For she is a ghost cat, invisible when company intrudes upon the house.

For she reveals herself to those who are worthy.

For she reveals herself to those who give her food or stroke her soft coat, depending on how long she has been alone.

For she reveals herself to no other animals.

For the house is her entire world.

For the roof she creeps onto is not an extension of that world, but is a realm of philosophy she studies assiduously.

For when I am on the roof, she keeps watch on the edges.

For when I am on the roof, she hides behind me.

For she is eager to understand the workings of all insect life.

For she is a terror to all insect life.

For she is an engineer that understands only through reversing a thing’s construction.

For she protects the house from roaches, when she is of a mind to.

For she sits on my chest and butts her head against my hand when desirous of affection.

For she bats toys from room to room, a soccer player of the highest caliber.

For there is no such thing as team spirit in her world.

For when I grab her and hold her aloft, she allows me time to learn the error of my ways.

For she can be curled into a ball and raised like a trophy, laid over my shoulder like an infant, made to dance with her front paws in the air, and held at bay with my hand cradling her head.

For whatever action I impose upon her, she never loses her dignity.

For she bites me tenderly when I have done wrong.

For she slaps me with her paws, but keeps her claws sheathed.

For her heart is never rancorous and cannot hold a grudge.

For today is her birthday.

For this day is as glorious to her as any other.

Bright Eyes

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