She begged for it, pleaded,
like everything alive does.
Scratch at the door,
singing her little sermon,
tail ticking time.
Green eyes flashing,
centuries of instinct.
So I put her out.
Mesh cage on the porch.
Sunlight thin.
World almost safe.
I left her there,
like every other sunshine promise day.
Groceries. Yogurt. Tuna. Cheap bread.
Another thing crossed off.
Then the sky went mean while I was gone.
Rain came down,
like it had a grudge with the ground.
No warning. No mercy.
Just Iowa saying,
Happy Independence Day.
When I got back,
she was soaked through.
Fur clumped like regret.
Tiger stripes,
blended and blurred.
Sitting low. Eyes flat.
A little scared
and judgmental.
Like I’d signed a contract
and reneged.
I opened the door.
I carried her in
and put her down.
She swaggered off.
Dignity dragging.
Sloshing behind her.
Didn’t even blink.
Half meow, half hiss.
“You motherfucker,”
under her breath.
Then went inside
like she owned everything.
Including my bad decisions.
And maybe she does.
Because that’s the deal.
You want the outside.
You get it.
And sometimes it pours so hard.
You forget
what you were asking for.
You come back in wet,
exhausted.
Fur matted.
Pride forgotten
in a little puddle.