I’m jealous of the scratching post.
Whenever she comes inside, cranky from some failed endeavour or an altercation with the crows and attacks the scratching post with feline ferocity like the slasher to the shower curtain in ‘Pyscho’, I’m envious.
It sure beats walloping the wall and pummeling the pillow when things get fractious or ululating expletives to the night sky.
Is it too much to ask: a scratching post for Xmas? Man-sized , of course.
You can bring the case in if you like, she says.
It may not want to come in, he says.
It’s a suitcase, she says. They don’t have a voice.
This one does, he says.
He goes out the door, to the car, where he lifts the lid of the boot. He looks at the suitcase for a few minutes.
What are you doing? she says. Talking to it?
Listening. It doesn’t want to come in.
Why not?
You know why not. Things deteriorate. We argue, say things that no one should say to another. I storm out, or you tell me to leave. It’s almost routine.
They look at each other, They have been here so many times before.
So what does the suitcase say? she asks.
It’s staying. In the boot , he says. It’s adamant about that.
How can a suitcase be adamant?
I’m ready for a quick getaway, it says.
Suit yourself.
That’s a bad joke, he says.
So you coming in?
I suppose so, just as soon as I close the boot.
John Malone 