Summer Ray is up with the birds. He circles the coffee table with his bone trying to entice me into a game of keepaway. He puts his front feet up in my lap and tries to move me with the power of his mind (or maybe just the power of his mobile eyebrows). He whines, he paces, he gets into things until I cave in and take him for his morning perambulation around the block or the lake, or take him to the dogpark to play with his friends. We're usually out of the house by 8 or 9 when Summer Ray is here. I can't even finish one cup of coffee in peace.
I've been catching glimpses of Summer Ray with every passing day. I see his work in the mesh bag of cherry tomatoes abandoned in the front hall. I hear him rummaging through clothes closets. I see him out of the corner of my eye as he steals an onion from the kitchen cabinet for a quick tour around the coffee table on his way to the front hall. I find him savaging an unlucky skein of yarn and chewing on my knitting basket. But most of all, I hear Summer Ray whining because he's bored with winter and can't wait for his season to arrive.
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