Dry food makes a lovely racket against the tin bowl, like hail on windows saying it is time to hunt shrews in the fallen leaves of autumn. The rustle of food bag so much like the oak and maple leaves. The squeak of distress just before I–
no wait, that was not reverie sound. It was me.
The last ping of sound in the food bowl was not a dropped kibble. My wobbly old fang has finally dropped free.
A fresh bloody-salt turn of affairs. I feel like grinning like some black labrador dog, if my face were built for it. No more banging it at awkward moments. I feel like a new cat.
Leave a Reply