Each day, a patch of sunlight bathed the carpet in a slow progression. Sleeping in the Sun's natural warmth was a great comfort and she knew which spot on the floor would last longest.
The cool absence of the beam didn’t always wake her in the evenings, more often than not, it was the sound of the automatic feeder. Twice a day it dispensed food, she knew, though she was never in a rush to eat. There was always so much time in the day, every day.
The house was quiet, mostly, as quiet as a mouse. She’d never seen a mouse. She’d only ever seen the woman. The woman came and went, came and slept, cleaned and watched television. The woman refilled the food and water and tended to the litter; things any respectable cat owner would do.
What more could a cat want? What more could a cat need? She was a lucky cat.
The woman had scolded the cat until the cat learned not to scratch at the door; better to be inside. The woman had scolded the cat until the cat was cured of the zoomies; better to be calm. The woman had scolded the cat until the cat learned to be quiet; better to be silent.
The woman didn’t scold the cat when the cat napped or walked around or ate.
The woman especially didn’t scold the cat when the woman cried alone at night.
That’s when the woman was nicest to the cat.
That’s when the woman wanted the cat.
That’s when she held her.
That’s when she petted her.
That’s when the cat stayed most still and when the cat was most useful.
Sometimes, the cat walked into the kitchen to look at her reflection in the oven's glass. She would offer herself a slow blink as cats do when they want to convey affection.
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