Willow Willow like a pillow pillow on my legs.
Or my favorite kind of blanket, one that breathes, one that has a little spunk, a little attitude if I dare move too much for her liking.
Willow Willow oh the look you give me when I disturb your beauty sleep. Whip your head back with sass, freeze and stare at me with a look that says, really, what is wrong with you, mom? Do I need to kick you off this bed?
Willow Willow billow billow boo.
And pookie face, too.
If I’ve really pissed her off, she will sigh, maybe grunt, and give me some side eye before jumping off the bed. She’ll do a downward dog stretch and either saunter out of the room or throw herself down on her side, refusing to make eye contact with me, her degenerate human.
I pushed her to the side this morning so I could stretch my legs on the guest room bed while drinking my coffee and writing my daily words.
She tolerated this interruption to her beauty sleep and gently placed her head on my calves.
I gave her a pet and she sighed a good sigh, signaling that I have pleased the queen.
The day is still night at this early hour.
HJ sleeps upstairs while I prepare to leave the house before the sun stretches up and over the trees.
And now, Willow pushes the top of her head into my right knee, half awake, half asleep, fully present with me.