The Window

Probably it’s an ordinary house; most likely, anyway, but since I’ve never lived anywhere else, it’s what suits me best. And the very best part about this house is that it has windows: some of them have sunshine which pours in, warm and inviting, especially on cold days. To sink into a puddle of sunshine is like cuddling into a soft blanket. At night, there are two windows from which you can see the moon, drifting silently in a black, silvery-spangled sky. If you lean against the window panes, you can feel the chill in the air outside. When it’s very cold, my breath leaves a mark on the glass, and if I press my nose against it, my nose gets cold quickly.

            But my most favorite window is the one where I can see … everything. I watch birds as they carry twigs in their bills, to build their nests in the spring. I watch those same birds from this window as they teach their little ones to fly. The small ones are so clumsy at first, and so very frightened of falling instead of flying. What must go through their tiny minds when their parents admonish them, and tell them they must leave the nest? And then I watch as some of the birds leave, flying away to warmer climates for the cold, dreary days of winter. I miss hearing them sing, chirp and twitter, telling their gossip and singing to impress a potential mate. But I know I’ll be at my favorite window when they return in the spring, and they start their busy little lives all over again.

            Sometimes I see a caterpillar too, as it wiggles its slow way along a twig of the shrubs which are just outside the window glass. I don’t think it has much on its mind, other than the next tasty leaf to eat. People say these caterpillars sometimes turn into moths and butterflies, and that must be true, because every spring, there are so many of them fluttering by the window. I can hardly keep track of all that fly by on a busy morning.

            And speaking of flies, there are those too; nasty creatures. I don’t like the buzz-buzz noise they make. They’re dirty; their feet leave little specks and even though they pretend to wash themselves, almost like a cat, they’re loathsome. I catch them whenever I can. No one feels sorry for them, apparently, because no one has ever scolded me for killing one.

            Here comes one of my family members; he’s shuffling his feet through the leaves again. The leaves have a different smell once they’ve fallen from the trees, and I can smell them as he brings them into the house, stuck on his shoes. His mother will sigh and ask him to please remember to wipe his feet, and he’ll grin at her and say he will, “Next time, Mom.” But I know he won’t; there are lots of little leaf bits tracked through the house every day, until his mother gets out that vacuum cleaner and they disappear. I don’t like the vacuum cleaner either; it’s too noisy and it has a bright light on the front of it that makes my eyes hurt if I stare at it.

            So I sit at my window, and I watch my own little world. With my tail curled around my paws to warm them, I’m content.

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