Uninvited

I heard the door creak open, his momentary silence. Then from the long hallway down I felt the quiet vibrations of his familiar waltz - four small paws rapping nearer, ta-tic, ta-tic, ta-tic, needle nails filing on my hardwood floor. Finally, he arrived. Stood. Licked his chops. He pressed his uninvited nonchalance against the footstep of my uncomfortable writing corner, and I knew exactly why. He cleared his throat and did what I knew he would: nothing. So I acknowledged him with a dull wave. He sharpened his eyes. Still, nothing. So he sharpened them again to crack me.

"What?"

"You know," he slurred like a sly, fat secret, "not everybody is going through some inner-angst crisis of misidentity." The way he enunciated that last word, mis-i-den-ti-ty, drove me mad. I tightened my lips. He rolled his thin muzzle in the air and repositioned himself closer. From the edge of his jaw, through his fox teeth, he slipped out: "You know that darling, right?"

I shrugged. "So?"

"Well alright," he continued, flipping his white-tipped tail back, and then forth, then back again. "I'm just here to give you fair warning, that's all."

"That's all what?" Now I was the one who was staring.

"Just all of this--" he pointed his wet nose towards my laptop. "Well, I suppose I should just have at it. Don't be such a dreary doldrum, darling. Your melancholy search for - what shall I say? meaning? - it's quite the bore, don't you agree? Some of us know quite specifically who we are. Have known for a very, long, time." Then he shivered, like he had caught a chill. "It might all be a waste. That's it. That's all I'm saying." He offered a clever smile like he was imparting advice to save me. Maybe he was.

I stared into my laptop without blinking. All those words, they turned to fuzz. But I maintained, pretended I hadn't heard a word. After a few long certain minutes, he turned himself slowly, traipsed back down the hallway, ta-tic, ta-tic, ta-tic, nuzzling the door open. "Toodles darling! I may be back..." I heard him sing-song as he trailed away.

"Yes, I'm sure you will."

Now I'm left to wonder if what he said was true. Almost surely - it is. But why he always comes to me, I don't know. To convince me, probably. Maybe to convince himself.

I blinked again. The fuzz returned my words. If only he knew the private joy of releasing them. So I picked up at the point where I had been interrupted and resumed writing, for the rest of us.