It was after the Witching Hour, about one-thirty this morning, and I was sitting on the patio with Emily, feeding, petting and dancing with her. She was twining between my feet and head bumping me, marking me, so that every cat within five a hundred mile radius would know that I belonged to her. We were just hanging out listening to a bird sing.
I asked Em if she knew why the bird was singing at this strange hour but, as always, she remained silent, staring at me with big green eyes. She implied that if I wanted to know, I would have to find out for myself. That’s the only way anyone learns, she said, with a flick of her furry black tail.
If Ginger had been there she would have told me everything. She would have let me know what kind of bird it was, where it was located and why it was singing. She loves to chat. Every time I see her we cackle and meow at each other. I’m pretty good at meowing and mewing but she laughs at me when I try to cackle. She’s a patient cat, so I think she still hopes that I’ll get the hang of it soon.
Emmie, on the other hand, is more like the Tao. She gives her support and nudges me, now and then, but she never gives me a straight answers. She’s my silent muse, my lovely stray cat, but she keeps her secrets and answers close to her heart.
The singing was beautiful but I’ve never heard a songbird sing at that early hour.
P.S. Scientists say that birdsong is about violence. It’s a warning other birds to stay out of their territory, or else. I don’t really care what scientists have to say. Birdsong fills me with happiness and I’m just going to go with that.