What He Sees

What He Sees

You’re in your room a lot, do you know that? For hours, it seems all you do is stare at the computer in front of you and hit the keyboard. Faster than a car, your fingers fly. Endless clicking. I can fall asleep to that clicking, for it has become my lullaby. I come into your room often, almost every day. Sometimes it’s hours until you notice me, and sometimes you only notice me because I sigh or kick your chair or shove my way past your knee to curl up by the radiator. I don’t mind if you don’t notice me. I am content to fall asleep behind you, smelling your scent on the clothes and books strewn about your den. The carpet is warm; the bed is warmer, but that is yours and yours alone. I sigh again and close my eyes.

Sometimes you trip over me. On those days you don’t notice me, when you rise from your desk and turn, and your foot nearly comes down upon me. But you check yourself, stop at the last moment, mutter quietly and step over me. I just lie and watch you. You trip over me sometimes when we’re both trying to pass each other in a doorway or racing to get to the front door first. But I don’t mind. The gentle nudge, from your knee to my side, is always accompanied by an apologetic touch; you take my head in both hands and keep one at the neck while the other fondles my ear. I know you don’t mean to walk into me. You’re clumsy, aren’t you?

I notice you’re busy. Stressed. I can smell the tension coming off you sometimes. Sometimes it’s worse than ever and it’s coming off you in waves and I come and shove my nose under your elbow and you stroke my head and look at me, and your eyes are wet, and you get up and crouch down next to me, put your arms around me and we just lean against each other. I notice that most days you’re busy in the mornings. You rush about, carrying the same things every day; that same black bag I’ve seen a thousand times, always weighed down by books and smelling like people and rooms and hard work. I know you watch me watching you, the way your lip upturns slightly when you see me cast my head about to follow everybody’s movements and the light, slightly apologetic touch of your hand, laid upon my head, before you shut the door and I am alone in the house.

I love it when you come home, smiling and smelling of other people, people I know, people I don’t know, the outside world, but still retaining that deep scent of you. We’re so used to routine, you and I. Every day when you get home you allow me to leap on you once, then you remove your baggage and open the door to the garden for me. Sometimes you follow me out and chase me about and throw things for me; sometimes you simply stand by the door and watch me as I rush out and find a place to lie down. Sometimes you complain in your foreign yelps and whines but never drag me indoors just yet, but always you call my name to let me know you’re going upstairs. I follow you upstairs, make myself at home on your floor while you go back to lock the garden door again, and when you sit yourself down at your desk I lay my head down by your feet and let myself fall asleep to the lullaby of your fingers flicking over the keyboard.

Reviews

[MoriartyMesa]

Now I wonder if my cat thinks the same stuff, lol.

Excellent job

[Krimson]

awwwwwwwwwwww thats adorable ^^
i love it(:

[Samuel Dickens]

I enjoyed reading this and want to give you a big "thumbs up". Two of the sentences are a bit long, I think, but otherwise, this piece is outstanding. "Man (and women's) best friend, there is no doubt.