Harry
I hope he’s homeless, otherwise I’m stealing someone else’s cat . . .
There’s a thump outside my window.
Not loud. Just enough to register through sleep. A familiar sound now. A furry body misjudging the distance from the perch he’s been waiting on, patiently, for me to wake.
Half-asleep, I slide my feet into slippers and rub my eyes as I cross the room. When I lift the blind, Harry is there — screaming in greeting, sometimes yawning back at me, always very sure that this was the correct time for both of us to be awake.
It’s usually dawn. That brief moment when the world holds a soft pink hue, like everything has been washed in something gentle. I notice it every time because I know it won’t last and in some way I want to hold onto that feeling. Soon enough the sun will sharpen the edges again.
I slide open the door and Harry weaves himself around my legs, pressing his body into mine in what feels like thanks — or acknowledgment — or simply habit. I’m fairly sure he’s homeless. He’ll disappear for days at a time, then reappear looking like he’s been everywhere except anywhere sensible. Bindis tangled deep in his fur. Sticky, matted patches that suggest long adventures I don’t ask about.
Right now, parts of his coat are growing back, slowly. Apparently the tangled patches of fur were too much effort to carry around.
Once the rubbing ritual is complete, he flops onto the floor and waits for the appropriate amount of affection. I scratch the spot on his back near his tail. He tolerates it until he doesn’t, then springs up and trots toward the kitchen.
I’ve learned he’s picky. For a homeless cat, he has taste. I made the mistake of buying lamb-flavoured biscuits once — an error I’m still correcting. Now I mix them with his preferred fishy ones so he’ll eat the whole bowl without protest.
As he crunches away, I make my coffee. The sound of him eating is grounding. Reassuring. He pauses occasionally, glancing around the kitchen as if another cat might leap out from the cupboards at any moment. Sometimes he wanders back over to inspect what I’m doing, rolls onto his back again, tests how much patting he can tolerate before irritation sets in and he retreats to finish his meal.
When the biscuits are gone, he waits by the sliding door, body pressed flat against the glass. Urgent. Ready. Already elsewhere.
I let him out and watch him disappear, just as quietly as he arrived.
The house settles again. The light shifts. The day begins.
I hope you’re well and feeling held, wherever you are in the world.
Much love 💜 Mel