Sunbird

Our older cat, Sarah, spends her days following the sun. In the early mornings, after breakfast, she can be found upstairs in the spare bedroom. There she’ll snooze on the corner of the bed that meets the front window, curled up tightly in a ball so that every inch of her body lies within the slanting frame of light streaming through onto the blanket. Shortly after she’ll travel downstairs and from the back of the living room sofa, absorb what light she can there.

By late morning she’ll have migrated to the top of the staircase, awaiting the moment when the sun has moved to the house’s side and a stronger wash of sun floods the stairs. She’ll sleep there until the early afternoon, when I’ll find her beside the refrigerator in the kitchen, stretched out into a long furry line that perfectly matches the narrow split of light extending across the tiles. The rest of the day she’ll spend in the den at the back of the house, trying to stay warm in the weakening patches of light filtering through the maple branches and down through the skylights.

And then at night, of course, she’s sitting on top of one of us for warmth. If I’m on my computer, she’ll be sitting on my chest, purring up a storm. Or else she’ll be curled up next to the Mont, meowing with sleepy irritation if he dares to shift position.
Night before last I had a series of dreams that seemed to last for hours, in which I was having to carry Sarah wherever I went. I lugged her to the supermarket, to a car dealership, and to a dozen other places where my wandering mind took me—and all the while she pressed her chest against mine, her front legs hugging my neck in the way she does when she’s showing affection. Then I woke up and found her sitting directly atop my chest, staring down at me in the early morning light.

It’s a nice life.