Babette

I discovered this image so long ago that I’ve lost the name of the photographer. If you know who it is, please tell me?

A timed write from 2021. The photo above was the prompt — a favorite prompt that never gets old.

The breath. The tuna breath. The garbage breath. She’s my dearest companion. My only real friend. Me, I’m pretty easygoing. I love easily. I am lovable. I am reasonable. I’m a good boy. Everyone knows I’m a good boy. Better than most. She can steal my food. My patch of sunshine. My place in the big bed. She can fail to introduce me to the neighbor pets. I don’t mind. I’m sort of shy. She can do her annoying tricks like jumping from the roof to a chair. Or squeezing through the fence gaps. Everyone oohs and ahs. Never mind that the other day I actually thanked our human — in English for chrissakes! — for the grub and the water. It took me years to learn how to speak. And it’s a little rrrrrough I admit. But discernible. Our human just goes on an on about Babette, my beloved cat friend. “Babette’s so bad!” “Babette’s so sneaky!” Let’s face it. Babette don’t give a shit. And I love Babette. But when our human doesn’t even hear me say “I love Babbette, too” or “I love you” or “Isn’t this a lovely evening on the patio?” — well — that’s must too much! Fucking tuna breath. I’m going to call animal control and report a rabid cat. Tonight. If I can just figure out how to use the fucking phone.