Writings

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  • Three Purrs and a Window (Meditation on a Tigger)

    April 5, 2018

    Three Purrs and A Window

    Sometimes I feel bad for my cat. 

    He just wants to be near me; he follows me around, thinking we’ve settled in one place only for me to remember I need a plate, a kleenex, that book I left by the front door. 

    He dutifully gets up and plods along behind me; I can practically hear the sigh under his furry breath when he nears my latest destination, only to see me turn and move elsewhere.

    He purrs a lot, this cat. 

    He emits purrs almost without reservation, which is an unusual thing for a feline. Such a deep reservoir of sound, audible across a room, tangible up close. I wonder sometimes if the well will run dry.  Has a cat ever run out of purrs?

    We play a game of chase: he’ll run up to me, stop short, and gallop away, rocking horse style, hiding behind a green velvet chair. I run by the chair, he leaps out, paws upraised, as though to bring down an errant gazelle. I cackle madly, full of glee, and continue running to the end of the living room and back, around the stove, through the kitchen. He attempts to cut me off at the pass between the sink and the window alcove, again with the gazelle thwarting leap. I laugh, he collapses in his favorite chair, and purrs.

    My heart flips over in the cognizance of joy.

    Copyright Liz Huff 2018