I Would Bring Him a Mouse

If I were a cat I would be glad when my human came home after almost three months away. I would follow him around, not unlike a dog, and extend my right front paw, offering a "high five" when he came home from work.

I would love him and give him presents.

I would bring in creatures from the wilds of the back yard.

Desert spiny lizards would be my specialty.

I would pick out the fattest, most colorful, handsome, and sassy of the species and bring them into the living room. While he watches the News Hours for coverage of ebola outbreaks and ISIL atrocities, I would fling them into the air, swat them on the way down, and then wait for them to run across the tile to refuge beneath the couch.

I would look at him with an expression of "Wasn't that great?"

He might try to ignore it all, but that would become difficult at night when he hears me jump onto the bed with a muffled "mmmmrrroww," because I have a very live and healthy mouse in my mouth.

I would let him know it's time to wake up and play.

The mouse, of course, would go under the covers and hide beneath his legs or run desperately across his face or leap blindly into space off the bed closely followed by me in hot pursuit.

I would find it all thrilling, and I  would know he does too, even if he pretends to sleep.

When he gets up in the morning, I would be ready for a day-long nap on my cat perch.

He would search the bed for the mouse, grab it when it sits still, and return it to the back yard. I don't know why or understand, but that's just the way he is.

Sometimes they try to fight and escape. They are suprisingly strong, like they have been doing pilates every night with me in the back yard.

As I drifted off to sleep with a Cheshire smile on my face, I would want him to have as good a day as I had a night.

He is strange, but I would accept him, even when I don't understand, if I were his cat.