Wakes rippled the waters. The speed boats sped. Engines sounded and sails sailed. The water sparkled as if a treasure trove of jewels was blanketed over it as the reflections shone onto the wall of the sunroom. And, the kitten played within the glass room that overlooked the beach, warmed over with the days that followed spring.
The cat, crouching behind the foot rest, pupils dilating, tail being held as stiff as still and it was about to pounce on the ball of yarn. The battle of wits began as the cat was there as quick as light by two giant leaps from behind the foot rest, from where it peered over to eye its pray; then, onto the couch and it struck the ball of yarn with claws out, giving a swift three jabs, right, left, right, but – the ball of yarn refused to give up. And so they sparred and the cat was convinced it was winning.
The owner watched the cat playfully toy with its amusement. The owner was amused, too, as the cat was her object of amusement and affection. Although, sometimes before the kitten would attack, it would jump high. Higher than a knee of an average sized adult. Strait up, too! On occasion, a sneeze would alarm the kitten like the attention shattering fog horns that sounded near the water. The cat did not cause the sneezes. It was the dust that had settled over the many years the owner had not hired a housekeeper, seven to be exact, since she had gotten the kitten.
Now a cat at the tender age of seven, it grew tired. The yarn, that is. It didn’t move around as much as the owner would have liked it to but that was the natural tune of age. The lesser the energy of the yarn to offend was the more the cat didn’t defend itself. The wisdom of age will speak of at least one thing and the tone with which it would speak would sometimes suggest that not all battles neither have to be fought out of selfish defense nor offense. The yarn had nothing more to not disprove, and the owner was fine with that and so was the cat.
The longer the whiskers, the slender the body and the more regal and elegant the cat became as sometimes it would sit on its owner’s lap with front legs crossed. Now that some grey was showing, the cat kneaded the owner more and more for comfort, staying on its lap for naps that seemed like the terrible length of dog day afternoons that dogs would often sigh on and on about, but – the cat was content, happy and purred more so now that it felt its young age. Even though its appearance may have told a story of an old and tired cat, it was ripe with life and love; it no longer had that childish hurriedness that often accompanied immaturity and, outside, even the boats that sped seemed to slow and the treasure trove of sparkling jewels were not as dazzling as once had been before. They didn’t need to be.
So it was that life was coming to a cadence, a resolve and with it the cat reflected that the ball of yarn didn’t want to win. They were both never concerned with winning. For, now the ball of yarn and the cat and the owner were all content to be with one another, without conflict, with nothing left to prove other than the love for their selves and, in turn, for one another. They didn’t mean that, though – because the only thing that they cared about was their own sense of a true, happy and selfish lovingness.