The Furry Muse

I woke up this morning to the alarm clock blaring “This is How We Roll” by Florida Georgia Line and Luke Bryan. It's not my favorite choice, but it works. I prefer Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May” or Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams,” but they don’t work so well to motivate us out of bed in the morning. I stretched in a few Cat-Cows, jumped off the bed, and strolled down the hall to the bathroom. My next stop was the kitchen to make sure the coffee pot had done its magick (technology, as some call it). Then I meandered to the dining room sliding glass door. It slid open, and I stepped out on the back deck into the early morning air. I did a few morning sun salutations and sniffed the four directions. 

The morning soft light was orange and deep ruby red. It was raining lightly, I noticed from the delicate, sweet-smelling rose petals that fell on my silky black fur. They were shades of apricot and peach from a rose named “State of Grace.” I discovered them in the dog-eared gardening magazine on the coffee table. The ground was covered with their velvet softness. I longed to run through them in the grass. The birds were twittering enticingly, and something stirred in me to hide and observe them, my tail twitching back and forth.

            My human companion stepped outside onto the awning-covered deck with her warm mug of creamy-smelling coffee. She sat it down on the table next to our chair and reached down to stroke my head and back. She makes me so happy. I had magicked her favorite roses to be delivered today, her birthday. I was hoping they would please her. She gazed up into the sky and reached over the railing with her palm to catch a handful of petals. She cupped her hands to her nose and inhaled. She dropped them into a selenite bowl next to her coffee cup.  She did her stretches, her yoga, as she calls it, called her blessings to the directions and sat down in our chair. She covered her lap with my favorite blanket and invited me to sit. I hopped up and made some biscuits while she sat up her tablet. She calls it her iPad, and it takes up a portion of her lap that I would prefer to occupy, but she tells me that I can share since this “iPad” is what helps keep me in my favorite kibble, nip, and noms. 

I curl around the encroaching device and make sure she sees my face. I adore her. I implore her hands to pet me, and I am soon rewarded by her hand caressing my cheeks, ears, and head. She tells me the roses are beautiful and that she prefers them this way instead of cutting their stems and putting them in a vase. The petals still fall softly from the sky. My spell will soon fade, but the petals will remain for many hours before vanishing. I hope she can sit and watch them rain until then. We have about an hour until she gets up for another cup of coffee, so I make the time count and groom my fur. 

Her fingers dance over the keys, making soft clicks that lull me to sleep again. I dream of a peachy yard and stalking the annoying robin who “tuk-tuks” at me. I roll on my back and stretch and watch a tiny bird through the slits of my eyes as he lands gently onto the hummingbird feeder. She tells Steve good morning, and I think Steve would make a good snack, but she admonishes me to let the little fairy be. It’s the same one every day. He chases all the others away from his feeder and then sits there and chitters at us. He is the second “Steve”. The first “Steve” made the mistake of flying inside our house through the open door. I am ashamed to say (not) that I slapped him down in mid-flight with a well-timed leap into the air. She took him away from me as I used him for pinball practice around the living room. I watched her from the deck bury him gently in the backyard. I could tell she was sad and disappointed in me, but fairies taste so good!

An hour has passed, and she moves the tablet to the side table, moving ever so slightly so that I get the idea she is ready to roll. I stretch and jump to the deck. She sets the blanket aside, stands, picks up her coffee cup, and heads to the kitchen. She presses a few buttons, puts her cup under the spout, and walks to the bathroom. I pad down the hall behind her and stop in my room to get a drink from my fountain. It is one of the luxuries that she says her writing affords us to have. I love how the water trickles down into the stainless-steel bowl. The crystals under the water catch the light in pretty rainbow prisms. There are tumbled amethysts, faceted clear quartz, and tiny rose quartz hearts at the bottom of the bowl. 

She shuffles by my room back up the hallway to the kitchen in her pretty faux sheepskin slippers. I love those slippers. I used to sleep in them when I was a tiny kitten. She picks up her mug from the coffee maker, opens the fridge to get the cream, and doses her coffee liberally with it. She finds a small saucer in the cupboard and pours a tiny amount of the rich cream onto it. She places it on the step stool, and I jump up and lap at the creamy deliciousness. I finished my treat and noticed she was back on the deck with the blanket waiting for me. I run to her and jump up, still licking the cream off my cheeks. I turn in a few circles, lie down, and clean my face. I polished my long whiskers and washed behind my ears and then lay my head on her knee and started purring. 

“Maggie May,” she said, “you are such a sweet girl.”

I can’t begin to tell you how much I love her; she is my life and best friend. The petal rain continued. The fragrance is like the perfume bottles on her dresser. Another hour passed as quickly as the first, but it must have been a long time for her as she had stopped with the clicking of the keys.

“Well, that is that!” she said.

She gave my head a gentle pat and moved to rise. I jumped off her lap and padded behind her. She talks to herself a lot as if narrating her life. I love to listen to her voice.

“Do you think it’s good enough?” She asks while looking down at me. “It will be the first time I have let anyone see my writing since that awful class I took. All I have to do now is copy and paste it into the submission form. I don’t know if I can do this.” she trails off.

She mumbles to herself a bit and goes back to the coffee pot. She changes her mind and instead opens the tea cupboard and gets a purple apothecary jar of her favorite magickal tea, turns on the tea kettle, and reaches up to get a teacup and saucer. After a few minutes, the tea kettle clicks off while she is preparing her heart-shaped tea ball, the one with the pretty amethyst heart pendant on it. I always like to bat at it while it dangles outside the cup. She pours the hot water over the tea ball and drops in a couple of pebbles of German crystal rock sugar, then stirs with an antique silver teaspoon with a quartz crystal handle tip.

I could tell she was casting her spell with her tea ritual, so I twined around her legs, clockwise to help, sat down, and scratched my collar to tinkle my bell. She reaches down to rub my ears, then pats her leg and asks me to come back outside with her.

Back on the deck, I see the petal rain becoming a misty drizzle. We snuggle together under the fleece blanket, and the tablet joins us.

“Well,” she says, “here goes nothing but five bucks” and clicks “SUBMIT.”

Great, I think, and send her Happy Birthday wishes followed by a question.

“What’s it about, you ask?” She said to me. “Why you, of course, my sweet kitten. It’s about you, my furry muse. Thank you for the gorgeous rose petal rain!” 

I yawn and decide it is time for my afternoon nap since the Felix clock ticked to noon a minute ago. Rose petal rain doesn’t come easy, you know.