Observing The Mute Cat

Clean water in the house but the cat laps up clay water outside. Drinking the earth. His pile, being perfect, ignores the misting rain. A charcoal Russian he opens his mouth like other cats and mimes a greeting mew. At one bound top-speed across the lawn and halfway up the zippy pear tree. Why? Branches? Stopping puzzles him. Eloquent of purr or indignant tail he politely hates to be picked up. His human friend never does it. He finds a voice in the flyscreen, rattling it, hanging cruciform on it, all to be let in to walk on his man. He can fish food pellets out of the dispenser, but waits, preferring to be served. A mouse he was playing on the grass ran in under him. Disconsolate, at last he wandered off - and drew and fired himself in one motion. He is often above you and appears where you will go. He swallows his scent, and discreet with his few stained birds he carries them off to read.