It's Still Life

THE CAT’S TEMPORAL PROTEST
(Or: Why Fix What Isn’t Broken)

The Old Woman is hanging a new calendar.
A gift from the crow.
Who stole it.

January glows with a photo of a serene garden.

The cat watches,
tail-tip flicking with skepticism.
“Explain,” he says,
“the need for a new year.
The old one was functional.
It had sunbeams.
It had sardines.
It had that excellent week in June
when the neighbour’s fish pond mysteriously developed a leak.”

The Old Woman doesn’t look up.
“Time moves, cat.
That’s what it does.”

“Why?”
“Because it must.”
“Says who?”
“Says… physics.”

The cat snorts.
“Physics also says birds should fly,
yet I have caught three.
Again, a flawed argument.”

He leaps onto the table,
places a paw on December 31st
as if holding it down.
“I propose:
We keep this year.
We simply… refresh the bowls.
And add more tuna.”

The Old Woman finally meets his gaze.
“The year isn’t a subscription, you know.
You can’t just renew the good bits.”

“Why not?”
“Because life isn’t curated.”
“Mine is,” he says simply.
“I am the curator.
You are my… assistant.
Now—about that tuna amendment…”

Outside,
snow begins to fall on the new year
whether the cat approves or not.
He watches it.
Silent for once.