Friday night in the big town. Whose catch phrase was that? Was that Gary England, the Oklahoma City weatherman? Probably. The line was always delivered with a little twinkle in his eye, like he knew if you were home at ten, watching him on the news, you weren't out partying on a Friday night. I had one of those Friday nights. I thought briefly about going out to a movie, but I haven't been able to convince myself to leave the house in more than 48 hours, so why pretend today was different? I've been more sensitive to cold this week, even on days when the weather was honestly just fine by Colorado winter standards. I've had muscle fatigue and a general disinterest in getting anything done outside of my own walls. I considered moving my base of operations to the spot in front of the bedroom TV for said movie, assuming something good was on HBO or Netflix, but even that seemed like too much of a brouhaha. I just wanted quiet, so I got it.
While I bonded with my favorite chair, I watched Harvey perform a perfectly choreographed cat maneuver. I had made salads with leftover steak sliced on top. He came begging for some from his father, who obliged him with a little of the chewy part, just like the piece Athena talked him out of moments earlier. He approached it warily. He popped up and sniffed. He pretended he was stealing. He hopped up on the arm of the chair where it was set for him. He discovered it was cow, which he Does Not Like. And then he threw it on the floor to Athena. (She hissed, lunged for it, growled, and ran off to eat in, all within the span of a second of it hitting the floor.) I wisely had my camera out for most of it, although zoomed too tightly to catch the Murder Floof who ended up with the treat. Proud of himself, Harvey then settled at my feet and kept me pinned in my chair for so long that I never did get up and see what movies were available on TV.
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