It's Still Life

The Cat On Lavender
(Or: A Feline Critique of Sanitary Accommodations)

The Old Woman kneels in the evening light,
gloved hands pressing soil
into a glorious blue-glazed pot,
the scent of lavender
rising like a prayer.

The cat sits beside her,
tail curled neatly around his paws,
observing the air,
a discerning critic
at a garden show.

“So much better,” he says,
“than the dusty old kitty litter
you insist I use.
This has aroma.
This has texture.
This has aesthetic presence.
That box in the corner?
Purgatory.
With clumps.”

The Old Woman doesn’t look up.
“It’s lavender, cat.
You mustn’t dig in it.
You mustn’t poop in it.
It’s for smelling.”

He sniffs the air,
slow and theatrical.

“I am smelling.
And judging.
And reassessing
every life choice
that led me to chalky granules
while this exists.
Velvety.
Fragrant.
Blue-adjacent.”

He reaches out a paw,
“Imagine it.
A lavender throne.
Scented deposits.
Herbal hygiene.
I would be the envy
of every cat
on this street.”

The Old Woman pats the soil firmly.
“You’d eat it.
You’d roll in it.
You’d track soiled footprints
across the kitchen floor.
And then you’d complain
that your paws were sticky.”

The cat considers this.
“…Fair point.
But still.
You could sprinkle a little
in the current situation.
A lavender infusion.
A herbal upgrade.
I am a cat of refinement,
Old Woman.
Not a common
dust-bather.”

He flicks his tail and adds,
“Also, the crow says
it improves sleep.
And I say
it improves everything.
Including my mood.
Which is currently
moderately gracious
but could be elevated
with appropriate
accommodations.”

The Old Woman smiles,
sets the pot in place,
and wipes her hands.

“I’ll think about it.”

The cat narrows his eyes.

“That’s what you said
about the heated bed.
And the fountain.

I am still waiting,
Old Woman.”