The Breakfast Ritual

The alarm sounds. The meows strike up. I lurch out of bed, put on my robe, open the door. The ritual begins. Jarvis, large and tabby, rushes to my wife’s bedside to receive some half-asleep pats. I bend down to reach Sophie, whose tiny tuxedoed body contains mighty lungs (currently being put to good use). His salutation done, Jarvis rushes past my feet, collecting Sophie behind him. At the kitchen they split up: Sophie goes in through the near door, while Jarvis trots through the lounge and dining room to enter the kitchen through the far door (he always goes through the far door before eating). I put the cats’ dishes on the bench. Jarvis’ plaintive falsetto harmonises with Sophie’s sharp commands. One scoop from the small bag for the small cat. She winds around my feet. One scoop from the big bag for the big cat. He re-enters the kitchen (from the far door, of course), having completed two or three laps through the hallway, lounge, dining room, and kitchen. He always runs laps before he eats—it is as though this time, in this kitchen, he will find his meal. He’s always right, eventually. I place the dishes on the floor, and the cats set to their breakfast with gusto, suddenly silent.