Whiskers

Curiosity beckons Monkey.  He leaps onto the windowsill,  his head moving in the direction of birds singing in the distance.  Something rustles underfoot and his gaze turns downward, his whiskers illuminated in the morning light.  Sometimes, when he nestles in the crook of my arm, purring like the hum of an engine, I stroke them, gently pulling them apart from his mouth.  It creates the expression of someone unsuccessfully trying to put on a happy face.  He always seeks my affection, often guiding my hand with his paw towards his neck where he loves to be scratched.  Most nights he falls asleep by my side, but inevitably makes his way toward the foot of the bed, for that's where he is when I first stir.  The rustling of the sheets wakes him, and after a stretch he curls up next to me, purring in delight.  I wish I could put him on a leash and take him on long hikes, or have him run errands with me, but cats on leashes look silly and he hates being in the car more than anything.