Margie felt her sleeve catch along the windowsill. Splintered old windowsills in Illinois, getting warmer
from the sun-heat. Gigantic moth and watermelon breezes
sliding through the big house. Margie got down from her chair near the window and on her hands and knees, slid up along the sleeping cats
in the hallway.
When Buster would come home, he"d pick her out of all the house pets and raise her up from the sleep she found on the plank
floor for big hugs and after-work belly bombs. Margie was a little girl who pretended all day that she was loyal
soldier to the feline clan
of the household. When they prowled, she prowled
. When they drank from their milk saucers, she drank
on the floor next to them from her bert-n-ernie mug.
Tomorrow a big grand piano will arrive. Buster said that it was the crown jewel of the Steinway showroom. It will be Margie"s job to watch that the cats don"t make a scratching post out of it.
Color. Grain. Magnificent woods encasing a musical beauty.
These things, Buster theorized, would be lost upon the house pets.
settled up on top of the settled dust, which had settled upon the planks, windowsills, and evening emptied red wine bottles
by the porch entrance.