Housecat

Each day, a patch of sunlight bathed the carpet in a slanted shape. It moved across the living room floor in a slow progression. The sun's natural warmth was a great comfort. The cat knew which spot would hold the light longest. She curled up and slept for hours. 

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. It dispensed food twice a day, though she was never in a rush to eat. There was always so much time.

The house was quiet most of the time. As quiet as a mouse. She’d never seen a mouse. She only ever saw the woman. The woman who came and went, came and slept, cleaned and watched television. The woman refilled the food and the water. She tended to the litter, things any respectable cat owner would do.

What more could a cat want? What more could a cat need?

In the beginning, she had scratched at the door. The woman scolded her. Better to be inside, she thought. So she stopped scratching. 

When she ran all through the house, the woman scolded her. Better to be calm, she thought. So she stopped running.

Her voice eventually annoyed the woman. Better to be quiet, she thought. So she was silent.

The woman didn’t scold the cat when she napped or wandered 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. 

She held her. 

She petted her.

That’s when the cat was most useful.

When she was still.

Sometimes, the cat walked into the kitchen to look at her reflection in the oven's glass. She would offer herself a slow blink.