i’m not good at making decisions

by uzwi

I still expect the cat to come running every time I open a tin. In fact he’s upstairs on my desk, in a white cardboard box five by six by seven inches, with a date & “sympathies” written on the front. “I know we’re in a weird place with this,” I tell him. “For you it’s a transitional place. I appreciate that.” Meanwhile, I say, he can entertain himself with the pigeon on the telegraph pole, the magpie on the pavement, both of real interest & easily visible from the window. Spring being on its way–to judge from the hail we had this morning–he can look forward to a lot more action of that kind. “Now you’re not out there so much, the garden’s full of birds.” I pat the box in what I hope is a reassuring manner. “I’ll find somewhere to put you eventually.”