This evening, while I was indulging in a special bag of Purim popcorn, Taxi sat in front of me and stared at me, determined (no blinking) and concerned (eyebrows rolling). He actually looked the way I drew him here. He was pulling out all stops in order to get what he wanted: his rightful share of the popcorn. He knew he would get it no matter what, but he knew he would get it sooner if he looked extra cute and told me how thin I looked and how he didn’t mind that I don’t sit around the house looking like the soap opera star I am.
“You know what?” he said, tilting his head and regarding me closely. “You look thin. I mean really thin. Almost, I daresay, too thin.”
I wasn’t ready to give in. He edged in a little closer, leaning in from the shoulders, a drop of drool ready to dive off the tip of his tongue. I didn’t budge.
“And I’ve gotta tell you,” he continued. “I love the way you’re secure enough in your own skin and confident enough about your beauty that you don’t feel the need to sit around the house in flimsy silk robes and high-heel mules. It takes a really special woman to do that. I even think it’s quite sexy!”
So of course I gladly gave him the popcorn because I love hearing its soft crunch between his teeth, and when I sometimes hold out my hand and feed it to him the way you would feed a horse a sugarcube, I love feeling the fuzz around his mouth on my palm.
He doesn’t even have to tell me I look extra thin or that I actually do look “hottt” in flannel. He doesn’t have to sweet talk me into getting what he wants. He doesn’t even have to give me his paw, which he sometimes offers as a bonus. All he has to do is sit there. But don’t tell him that. Shhhhh.