Tending The Rules Of Affection

TENDING THE RULES OF AFFECTION
 
It’s that time again when my white cat Penelope likes to stretch out
twice her length on the royal-blue sofa without rhyme or reason,  

Smugly ignoring all entreaties for affection, licking one curled paw
after another, undisturbed in her lazy repose until dinner,

or a suitable time by late afternoon when the fins of the sun,  
warming her like a cotton blanket, begin their ritual of climbing

up the wall and retreat on the ceiling toward the horizon for the evening,
leaving her purring in the room painted lavender and teal. Her delicate  

twilight aura on the sofa twins the moon’s corona. Was I wrong
to interrupt her? Gently smooth her silky back hairs from ear to tail,

only to fall victim to claws ejecting faster than a snapped mouse trap
followed by crimson highways etched like a road map across the back

of my hand. A good lesson learned. If only she were the solicitous way
of my golden retriever, Malakai, who happens to be mahogany not golden.

She’d have a virtuous spunk, a protective function, a playful nature panting,
forever panting. But would I if I could exchange Penelope’s bold aloofness,

her endearing rubs against my neck, her scrambling after a stupid fish
on a string, for anything? Malakai barks at his own shadow, drools

on the bed, and tries to hump my neighbor’s leg. What to make of all of this?
The rumbly snore of an obedient dog? The rippling purr of an independent cat?

By 10 pm my Hulu binge is five episodes deep; absolutely the best time
for another cup of hot tea with lemon or honey, undecided on who's the most adorable.   

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