Without diving too much into personal stuff (which is silly, I know, because this is a blog and therefore it’s supposed to be personal to some degree), the past two weeks have been a nightmare. Doesn’t the universe know that spring is the time for tilling the earth? I’d like to leave the worms and detritus buried until I need them, not have them brought up to the surface without my permission.
I still like the crispness of the air and the smell of decaying leaves. Someday, fall will let me rest. Until then, I guess I’ll just have to keep growing stronger year round.
Anyway, here’s a drabble, late, unapologetic, and stronger for it.
(n.) From Ancient Greek αἴλουρος for ‘cat’ and μαντεία for ‘divination
A type of divination from the appearance and behavior of cats.
Frosty can tell the future. She doesn’t speak or anything—Cornelius is eleven, old enough to know that cats don’t talk—but she tells the future all the same.
“She threw up a hairball yesterday and it rained,” he tells his mom. “She threw up again today, so it will rain.”
“It’s Washington, sweetie,” his mother says. “It always rains.”
Later that day he watches Frosty digging in the garden, fur stuck to her skin with rain. She trots inside, squeezes through the cat flap, and drops a beheaded mouse at his feet.
He’s not quite sure what that means.