Mornings with Frankie

I know a lot of people who think of their pets as their children.  Am I one of them?  Today I think I  am.

This morning, I lie in bed, sunlight peaking through curtains.  I can’t  help but smile.   Frankie, our ten-year old grey cat with the deep well of green, piercing eyes, jumps into bed, eases her body into the crook of my back, then changes position to my hips.  The immediate comfort to both of us makes me happy to be her “mom”.

Since I am not  a mother to any human children, it makes me wonder– is this the moment parents wait for?  The morning a daughter climbs into bed, sleepy-eyed and cozy, still half-involved in her dreams?  She wiggles up behind you,  scoots her rear against your back and settles into the warmth of you?

The intoxication of a small  furry being wanting to curl up next to me creates the light of 700 days.  I spoon her.  She shifts and settles, wraps her arm above her face in attempt to block the light.  Soon she is breathing deep, which results in a high-pitched, feathery whistle-snore, much like her own fathers’.  I ease into the coziness as well, stroke her velvet coat and pepper her face with kisses.  Frankie, the one who had blue eyes like Sinatra when she was born, now an emerald-eyed wonder we share our bed with.


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