April 16, 2010


Her white teeth make clacking sounds against the dark wood beads of my mala. She sits squarely in front of me, purring softly, determinedly, directly between me and the computer monitor.

When I hold out my finger, she rubs her head against it, starting with her whiskers, moving up the hard bone of her cheek, around her ear, and back down her forehead and along the bridge of her nose, taking advantage of my hard fingernail. Then the other side.

When I wave my mala for her, she bats at it with a paw, then bites it gently. When I let it fall back, she sits there, paw hanging in space.

I reach out and grab the paw. She looks at my hand, affronted, and delicately tries to pull her paw away with an annoyed grump. When that doesn’t work, she applies her teeth, which always makes me laugh. She disapproves of me laughing at her indignity, and finally turns to leave.

But she is still purring.

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