Devonne Brown

Norris’s ears were flat against his head when I unlocked the door and stepped in the living room. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, not on the back of the chair where I’d be able to rub his head and chin as soon as I opened the door. No. I’d been gone four days, strangers had been in to feed him, and he needed cream now. 

His whiskers twitched, and he lept off the table and led me to the refrigerator, howling obscenities at me with every step. He jumped on my leg and gave me a little claw, just to let me know I was on the right track with the cream when I opened the fridge door.

 His yowling became kinder while I replaced his blue dish with a pink one, poured a drop of half and half, and set it in his window between the kitchen and the gallery. He forgot he was mad at me and rubbed my hand while I still held the pitcher. Norris was ok with the extra bit, said he could manage it just fine, and that I should go unpack. He’d deal with me later.