Seekrits of Min

That morning I felt together, alert, ready steady with a packed lunch and reached for the keys which were not there. Things were going so well, and I know that if keys are missing, it can mean a twenty minute search and rescue. Shook the purse, rechecked pockets, tabletops, dresser tops, and the coffee table in front of the sofa where black and white Min curled in undisturbed somnolence. Did not lift her head as I waggled pillows and lifted edges of papers, swearing in Northern Lights undulations, curtains of Jumping H. Jaysus rippling towards the ceiling.

Offended by vulgarity in others, Min stretched and left as I passed on to the hallway to seek the second level of disappearing things. The first time you swoop through the obvious, the second time you begin peeling away layers of sense and look in long unopened drawers, inside cabinets, where were you dusting yesterday areas of possibility. Behind furniture. Atop the fish tank. You begin to flail. Items fly.

Once through the apartment, I headed back down the hall to begin again methodically, with a flashlight added to reflect lost metal. Already I had purchased a tag that was supposed to respond to whistling with beeps. Neither I nor the tag could hear each other ever as my whistling is ridiculous and the alerting beep was hardly loud enough to startle a hamster. I happily tossed it out.

Having again passed by the living area, I noticed Minerva had left a gift, as if she laid eggs. In her place were the keys; she had been sleeping on my keys. Never have I had a cat sleep on keys, doesn't it poke tender spots? They were warm from her body heat when I picked them up. Scoundrel. I wasn't late to work.

She has never gained an ounce other than normal body weight after I took her in and cleaned her up. She is a talker, not so much as a Siamese does, but yowls and screeches while getting her favorite head rubbing. Now the oldest at fourteen, Minta Minka still rules the roost with the Paw of Little Regard for others rights. Her great love, Martian, passed on last summer; broken hearted, she called for him for months afterwards. She mourned but now is getting on with it by yowling orders or cuffing miscreants and ne'er do wells with a white foot.

Oh I know and some of you do also, that she will see him again in all his orange nonchalance just as I will. In my funny world, that means that someday you will meet him also, after time reloads and eternity folds like a sugared French pancake. If time does fall in a tumble along with gravity, mass, and matter, all we will have to do is meet each other and go over old times. I do hope there is choice, for there are some people I do not want to meet again. I don't think death keeps you from being a jerk. Maybe it's part of that Mobius strip endless loop, where we have opportunities to smooth out imperfection.

So I am going to sleep well this evening. Again, the heat of day is subsiding into a possible stormy night, the best. I love the crashes and lightning bolts from the upper atmosphere, even when electrical crackling by white hot temperature sews my ears and eyes shut. Min is one not to be bothered with a storm, she will be the only one sitting with me as I read before bedtime, when others have melted hiding into the walls. My girl, Min. Tuck into a ball, close eyes and dream of warm grass and orange romance, of midnights on the wooden porch of before, of human voices calling you home.