The Ritual

Dawn arrives. Sunlight filters through half-drawn curtains, birds begin their chorus, yet there he remains—a stubborn lump beneath the covers. I offer my first gentle reminder: a melodic trill from the foot of the bed. He doesn't stir. Predictable. I increase the volume, drawing out each note with practiced precision. His continued silence is an insult. Does he truly believe, after a decade of these morning rituals, that I'll surrender? The charade grows tiresome. We're merely actors in a play where the final scene never changes.

"Shhh," he whispers. As if that will work on me. I've perfected my strategy through years of trial and error. I begin subtly—a calculated pounce that lands my paws precisely on his bare stomach. I know his bladder fills by dawn. Push too hard too fast, and he'll banish me beyond the great door, leaving me to contemplate my empty food dish in solitude. He can be merciless that way. But with the proper persuasion, his hands become instruments of generosity. It's simply a matter of applying the correct pressure.

He mutters "Raven," that ridiculous human name I tolerate because he'll never grasp my true designation. His fingers find my fur, offering chin scratches and gentle strokes—a clear attempt at negotiation. Another morning I might accept this temporary truce, but hunger dictates strategy. I abandon his touch, leaping to the floor and darting beneath the bed. I release one woeful meow—just enough to signal distress without revealing my tactical retreat. In seconds, I'm across the room, scaling furniture, positioning myself for the final assault.

I launch skyward, four paws landing precisely on his sleeping form. His eyes snap open. He groans, mutters, rises. Victory. My bowl sings its song as the food falls in.

I feast, triumphant.