Dusty Whiskers

Honey hurried out of the cabin with dust bunnies on the tips of her white whiskers, running to insinuate herself between Astra’s legs.

It’s Astra’s fault she left the cabin door open. A sunny fall day when you know Honey is bound to show up for hunting season in our backyard.

She forgave the tresspass with a mock scolding, “what did you DO in there, Honey not supposed to go IN there, Honey” bending to tend the cat’s face, pulling the grey trails from her quills. Swept from under Astra’s desk piled high with unfinished projects. Astra’s bare legs turning red from Honey’s head butts, scraping her face hard against the calves. The pantieless warm breadrise odor I know so well that Honey must be able to smell under that old grey Goodwill nightgown Astra practically lives in.

Sometimes I think Honey is about to leap up under there and crawl all the way inside and that Astra will absorb her into herself as though it is the most natural thing in the world. Rejoined twin spirits. Cut from the same cloth.

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