My Precious Snowflake

My cat, whom I affectionately call “Piggy” and ironically call “my precious snowflake” but who is really named Ekulo, jumps onto my desk and curls up on the midterm exam I’m preparing for my freshmen, as if to say, “Don’t work so hard. Take a break. Pet me.” I pet her and her damp fur tells me it has started to rain outside. I press my ear close to her body to hear her purring and I whisper, “Piggy, Piggy” and I ask her where her sister is. She licks her paws. I look at her beautiful black face, her shiny whiskers, and her dense yellow eyes. While lost in the beauty and simplicity of a mere house cat, obtained from neighbor girls who were walking down the street with a cage full of “Free Kittens”—it was fate that brought us together—I think to myself, “If I died and my flesh were cooked and thrown to her on the floor, she’d eat me without a second thought.” I put her on my lap and go back to working on the midterm.