Sevenline No. 35
Lady Zin
I don’t own this feline entity; not the places she chooses to commandeer in my home, not my blankets, the spare bedrooms, the underneath of dressers, the spaces behind pillows, nothing, and we both know it. Lady Zinfandel of the House of Kocsis is the queen elemental of a residence for which she pays not a cent. She speaks when she wishes, a loud grating meow, set to that tone by my own vocal ranges, and a childhood spent with me speaking to her, as if she clearly understood. She does it in her own way, yelling loudly when it’s time for meals, even though the alarm is five minutes away from rang-a-langing; her little instincts of understanding time dimensions without having any device with which to measure it, pinging her stomach. At the witching hour, zoomies arrive, and she becomes a full-contact athlete across the open plains of our home. Daytime is her siesta, and I must tiptoe quietly as not to disturb her dominion. I exist here as mere staff, and I have willingly accepted this position.
This post would not be complete without a gallery dedication to the queen.
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