Sunday mornings are kind of special in my mind. Maybe they are special because they are quiet. Many of the neighbors are still asleep or eating breakfast or maybe dressing for early church services when I take my first walk on Sunday mornings. With so much activity in our neighborhood, I look for that little bit of quiet time when it is just me and the universe, uninterrupted by human sounds — before cars and trucks have had time to become background noise or diminish the early natural fragrances.
I usually tiptoe out of the house at the first sign of light and walk for several miles. It isn’t a brisk walk, but rather a leisurely stroll. I don’t walk on Sunday mornings for the exercise as much as for the opportunity to enjoy the beauty that surrounds me. This morning I decided not to take the sidewalk but to descend the hill behind the house. It is heavily wooded before the clearing comes into sight — at least, the path I took this morning.
Ordinarily, the visuals are squirrels, a few taunting chipmunks, and on rare occasions I catch of glimpse of the orange cat we have named Oliver. Oliver doesn’t walk with me. He dares not come so close or admit so much interest in humanity. Instead, he chooses to shadow me, peeking out from behind a tree if I turn to see if he is following. Oliver is stealth. He lowers his body and carefully places each foot so as not to make a sound. If I happen to turn towards him when he is on the path, he freezes — holding his position for as long as I am looking. If, by chance I turn around and begin to retrace my steps, Oliver — apparently fearful of being captured or touched by a human hand leaps to a tree trunk and climbs to a branch, as if I can no longer see him.
One of the most interesting things about Oliver is that he does not respond to “here, kitty, kitty.” In fact, he seems deaf if that is the call. Not even the flicker of an ear gives evidence of interest. In fact, his response — or non-response — seems to be something I read somewhere: “Talk to the tail because the whiskers aren’t listening.”
I guess I am presuming quite a bit, but he does look when I call “Oliver.” That doesn’t mean he makes any effort to approach. But, a look from the pretty boy is enough. And, yes, I prefer to believe that Oliver knows he has a name. And, I believe that Oliver prefers that I don’t think of him as “Kitty, Kitty.” Well, that is between Oliver and me.
Anyway, this morning as I descended the hill I caught a glimpse of a beautiful flower in full bloom. Now, I have to assume that someone planted it, but in all the years I have walked this path today was the first time I have seen this one in bloom. What a beautiful little gift! But, Sunday mornings are special mornings.
I stopped to snap a picture. I stood and admired the pastel beauty for a few minutes. Then, I turned to come back to the house. But, as I glanced back over my shoulder I noticed Oliver. He was standing on his hind legs, his nose twitching as it approached the blooms. He circled the plant several times, then stood on his hind legs again grasping one last sniff.
I walked on to the house. And Oliver took his position on top of the table in the backyard. I poured myself a cup of coffee and took a seat on the back porch. Oliver lifted his head to look. Assured that I was not on the move again, the orange cat rolled onto his side for a nap. And, I sat down to enjoy the small gifts of Sunday mornings.
This morning I am thankful for the discovery of a beautiful bloom and for Oliver, my little friend… well, almost friend.
