Drinking from the faucet

Our cat’s fascination with water

by Al Zolynas

I wake to his weight on my chest, his half-closed eyes saying it's
time to get up, human. In the bathroom, I turn on the faucet in the
tub for him, the way I have most mornings the last two years.  He
jumps in.  The black flames of his eyes widen.  Again, he can't
believe it, can't believe the silver chord hanging from the silver
faucet, can't believe he lives in a world that gives him the same,
new gift each morning; can't believe it, so he has to touch it, and
then can't believe his paw goes right through it, and has to touch it
again and again; and I, looking at his lost eyes, the wet paw,
the tail flicking on the white porcelain, my untouchable other self
on the silver surface of the mirror, can't believe it either.

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