moult

Tuesday, 21 st of July, 2020

The cat reaches

up from the floor, puts her

paws onto the thinly-clothed knees. She

looks up, she seems to be seeking eye contact.

Look down, put the knees together. She

goes down onto her haunches and springs

up onto the knees. She lies down, her chin

on the left human kneecap. Stroke her

back, listen to her. purr. A mass of

cat hair sticks to the hand, cats always moult.

Especially when stroked.

The window is open, throw the small

bundle of cat hairs out. The light breeze

propels them back in, they rest on the

window sill

now.

They will be thrown out later. 

Finish the coffee made earlier, and

listen to the bells sound. The alarm on

the tablet sounds too, put a finger on the

script saying stop, and continue stroking

the cat's back. Her purring is not just a

quiet buzz any more, it has squeaky

overtones.

Stretch out the legs, the cat realises that

her knee sojourn is over and jumps to the

floor. The car is parked far away, at the

entrance to the tunnel. Hurry now, not to be late.

WS