Nobody Told the Cat

Rain, the thin kind that won't commit to the gutter. Sunday. The clocks went back while we slept, all but the one on the stove, which I leave.

The cat was at the bedroom door at six, her seven, sitting the way she sits when she has a case to make, tail laid round her feet like the end of a sentence.

Who explains an hour to a stomach? Not me. I get up. The bowl rings once on the tiles.

And the light, which also wasn't told, is already in the hall, grey, on her schedule, the first morning in weeks I didn't need a lamp to find the tin.