It was such a sparkling morning early this morning that I had my father sit on the porch to enjoy the view of the trees and clear blue sky. He is an expert birdwatcher and enjoyed seeing male and female cardinals fly back and forth across my heirloom tomato garden and perch on the deer fence, first on one side and then on the other. His favorite cat, Remington, a tuxedo puss, sat up straight next to his grandpa’s chair, with his chest puffed out, glaring balefully into the yard for any potential threat to his dear grandpa. My father has never in his life felt and been so loved by an animal, so every night when Remington attends him to bed he tells me, “I don’t care WHAT the preacher says, there’s a human soul in that cat.” I had the door open and could see them sitting together through the storm door in sociable communion with one another and the lovely scene before them as I passed back and forth getting all seven litter boxes scrubbed out and refilled with fresh cat litter.
It’s not quite the definition of bliss, but it’s a wonderful thing to KNOW you are happy when you are happy.
Or, as I used to say to Margaret — in my impression of cat language, which, according to me, seldom uses verbs — “Life good. Life good.”