“What do you say we watch a movie?” I say to Ruthie. She lies curled at the foot of the bed and stares at me.
“Yes,” I continue. “Let’s watch Blacklist. But first . . . let’s open a window. Yes. We’ll just let in some fresh air, eh?”
The round feline eyes meet my gaze. My speech is as meaningful to Ruthie as the fwa-fwa-fwa trombone language of Charlie Brown’s teacher, but she knows I am talking to her, and this she appreciates.
“Ah, there we go. Niiice night-time air. Perfect, don’t you think? Oh, hey, lookee!” I bend over and pick up a green mousie toy that has been missing for a while. “Looka wha I found! How ‘bou’ da’?” I toss the toy over by the bedroom door.
The stare. Ruthie is not presently motivated to chase green mousie toys. The unction has to be upon her.
“And now I’ll just settle in with my niiice glass of Maker’s Mark and Netflix. Sound good? I knew you’d agree. I just knew it.”
Ruthie says nothing. What else should I expect? She’s not one to dignify my rambling rhetoric with a response. And then it dawns on me.
“I talk to you more than anyone else these days.”
“Mmm.”
Not even a meow, but it’ll do.