Felicidad

I unlock the door. It is a grille reinforced with wire-mesh. I step through. I hear a distant jingle, once, lightly as if a dancing-girl has tipped her ankle at me. I look up in time to hear a barrage of clinky jingles as the cat bounds towards me, the bell-collar doing its job.

He's eight, going on nine. He is amber and flax in the afternoon sun. At this time of the day, I'm normally busy and he's normally lurking in the corner of the garden that is shady, cool and looks out on the entrance to this domain. He's curious as to why I've stepped into the garden.

I walk to him. I know something he doesn't know, for once. I have some free time, and I am going to share it all with him.

He runs at my left foot, nuzzles. He sags against my big toe. It's his usual routine. He likes my toes. They are chunky, knobbly, and hence give him an excellent rubbing surface. He gently bites down on the largest joint. Mine, he establishes, leaving little dents.

He perches on my foot, a habit from his kitten days. Now, much too big, he simply curls around part of it and flicks his tail against my knees. I have taught him not to stick his claws into my foot when he wants attention.

I grab him around the head, gently. He goes limp. All cats think they're tigers, but some of their reflexes are responses to bigger tigers.

I scratch him firmly behind the ears with one hand, but not too hard. Between, behind, around. Under his jaw, into his neck muscles. He stretches, claws out, flexing. He blinks very slowly, the sun making his eyes into clear, bright lime-jelly fire. This is the life, he purrs.

I sit on dry, aromatic grass. A light breeze dances by. The cat flumphs sideways, mouth slightly open. Scritch, scritch. Time passes.

Finally, I get up. The cat opens his eyes wide. And his jaws. He accompanies me to the door. As I step back in, he bats at my ankle, leaving fine white lines. Then he runs off, back to his shady tiger-dreams.