You're a good dog, Rita

Here I sit, reading "messy first drafts" on the patio. The weather is SoCal spring-time lovely. The hummingbirds in the fig tree are buzzing around on important hummingbird business. These little tiny finch-y shaped birds, yellow and brown, are hopping around the ripening figs.

And beside me, on the doormat, naps Idris, his plastic milk ring beside him. We have been playing fetch since 10:30, on and off. He naps, I get some work done. Then he wakes up, chirps, and brings the ring to me. I can ignore this, for a time. He will wait patiently, chirping at intervals. Then he will nibble my ankle, or bite my pants. He will bring the ring closer. Bat it around my feet. Hide it under the stool, or the desk, and attack it. Bring it out here, on the patio, and pursue it around the concrete.

So we play, in 15 minute bursts, until he needs to rest. Then I get work done. Repeat. And in between, he sprawls beside me, toy nearby. When I go inside, I will whistle, and he'll come galloping after me, expecting a treat.

Nous and I think we got a dog after all, trapped in a cat's body.