She sits with her back slightly hunched, her hind legs sit close to her stomach. Her ears prop up at the sound of a doorknob turning, the opening of a bag of chips, or the crunching noise from the brown paper bag that holds my medication.
Anything really.
The sound reminds her of the food we share; the left over meatloaf, and the uneaten chips.
This is routine for her. She’ll rarely skip a beat. Not even if I do.
Her eyes watch me move from kitchen cabinets to the fridge door. Her head moves not an inch. She let’s her tounge hang with careless confidence. She’s focused.
She’s waiting for eye contact, the shift in my hands, down to the twitch in my fingers that prompt her to move in for scraps. She’s waiting for her chance to eat her share.
Again, this is normal for her, as it is for me. She has no shame: she’s an adult but will mercilessly strike me with puppy eyes, and whine if I dare skip her turn…
*As I experiment with the format of jonawrites, you’ll notice a change here and there.
This one is focused on how I publish; I’ll be experimenting with Medium for a few months. So in that regard, here’s the rest of the story, published on Medium.*
