Once a day I’m in the woodshed loading logs onto the cart I bring into the house to feed our wood stoves.
And always, Zip is there with me.
He walks under my feet and rubs his head on the cart. Inside the shed he rolls on his back enticing me to stop what I’m doing and scratch his belly.
I always give in, how could I not.
And when he sees I’m done, the big blue door latched, the cart full,
he leaps straight up onto the table on the porch,
hops into his wooden crate and
stretches and clenches his long sharp claws
again and again,
kneading the wool pelt he sleeps on.
