Peanut

The alarm blares harshly in my ear for the third time. I roll over lazily and pound the snooze button, then open my eyes just enough to read the fuzzy red numbers on the clock face. Six thirty. Knowing I have to be at the school early, I blindly grab for my glasses, slide them on my face, and start again to doze off. I jar myself awake by consciously rolling out of bed and face-first onto the floor, then stagger to my feet and out the door. Left turn. Watch out for the wall. I careen sleepily away, barely missing the partition. Bathroom door. Open. Ouch. Stupid doorjambs, always jumping in the way. Stagger inside. Close the door.

Lights. I shut them off almost immediately; in my lethargic haze I am nearly blinded by the white glare. Opening my eyes, barely realizing they've been closed, I allow them to adjust to the dimness of the bathroom night light. Lights. This time they don't hurt as much, but I squint nonetheless. Yawn. Tired.

Finishing in the bathroom, I turn out the lights and stumble down the stairs. Yawn. Peanut. "What are you doing up this early, Nut?" I ask her. She mews up at me, then resumes her game of kill the welcome mat. I step over her, careful to not lose my balance, and head for the next bathroom.

Lights. I hate that fan. Water. The chill liquid gushing forth from the faucet quickly grows searingly hot. I add cold water to the hot, then wash my hands. My glasses find their place in the organized chaos of the countertop. My hand goes into the medicine cabinet, automatically withdrawing a bottle and a small plastic case; I proceed with my business there. Contacts in. Right eye first, then left. Lights off. I remain in the dark long enough for my eyes to relax, then open the door.

Peanut. She mewels at me plaintively. Food, she seems to say. I enter the kitchen, the two-pawed kitten following. Pat-thump-pat-thump-pat-thump. She walks on three legs, holding the left rear stump above the floor and gingerly using the left front stump for balance. Food! she cries again.

I open the refrigerator. "None here." Then I turn to the cabinets. I open one of the lower doors, withdrawing almost simultaneously a small can of Friskies. Stepping around the kitten, I carry the can to the counter.

Food!

I tug at the metal ring on top of the can, removing a circle of steel. The food smells terrible, a combination of old fish and rotting eggs, with a hint of something wholly unidentifiable but similar to the scent of a fish tank long overdue for a cleaning. The kitten loves the powerful odor. I turn to the silverware cabinet and remove a knife and a saucer. Six forty-five. I set the knife and saucer down as one object, then again take up the knife. I stab the pewter blade into the viscous mush filling the can, scrape it onto the dish, and place dish and food on the floor for the waiting kitten.

Food! She tears into it as though she's been without sustenance for days.

I look at the clock again. Still six forty-five. Yawn. I turn to leave the kitchen. In my haze, I almost collide with the wall next to the staircase. Light switch up. Wrong switch. After four years, I should know which switch is which. Other switch up. Down the stairs. Switch up. Wrong again. Yawn.

Third bathroom. Three switches are set into the wall near the door. With one smooth motion, I turn on light, fan, and heat lamp. Shower. I reach across the front of the shower to turn the hot water on. Who's the idiot who put the pipes in backwards? Gather towels. Check the bath mat--it's dry. Steam begins to pour from the open shower door. I reach in and add the cold water. The steam begins to subside, but not before filling the entire room with an eerie mist. Pajamas off. Slippers off. Damn, the floor is cold! I dart into the waiting warmth and wet my hair. Shampoo. Rinse. Soap. Rinse. Water off. One towel I loosely wind around my hair in a vague mockery of a turban, the other I use to dry my dripping skin. I wish I had time to blowdry my hair. Slippers on. Pajamas on. Lights off. Door open.

Peanut.

"What do you want, Nutty?" I ask. She squeaks at me and flies up the stairs. How can a cat running on two feet move that fast? I ask myself, following slowly.

Noise. Something picking repeatedly at the weatherstripping outside the front door. Peanut looks interested. I am not. I open the door, startling the brownish cat on the steps outside.

"Go away, Izi."

Peanut, completely ignoring Isaachar, chooses this moment to dash at the opening into the sub-freezing weather. I stop her with a slight movement of my foot, then close the door.

"You're not going outside, you twit. It's too cold. I'm not gonna go out and watch you."

Peanut mews pitifully, looking at the door. Please? she seems to ask.

"All right, but you won't like it," I concede, thinking back to how we acquired our only house pet.

She had been frozen to the cattle tank. Cold metal adhered to slightly damp paws gained when she knocked the ice aside to take a drink. The six-week-old kitten found herself stuck there overnight. My parents removed her with a hairdryer, saving her life but ultimately at the expense of her two left paws. Without them, she cannot survive alone, but with them, she would have died. Their loss was an acceptable sacrifice. She now stays inside most of the time, with the exception of the occasional trek to the outside world.

Incredibly, when the door opens, the kitten fearlessly walks out. Isaachar is gone. Typical. I follow, closing the door and folding my arms across my chest, trying to keep at least some heat in.

Slowly, Peanut hops down the stairs. Slowly she sniffs at what I presume is Isaachar's path. Slowly her nose traces the vague outline of something many years gone.

"Are you ready to go in?" I ask, feeling the sharp bite of the wind.

Slowly she sniffs at a broken mat. Slowly she sniffs at an old hammock. Slowly she moves about the porch.

"Are you ready to go in yet?" I ask, beginning to shiver.

Slowly she sniffs at an old mat. Slowly, Peanut approaches the elderly white cat seated on the stairs and sniffs her tail. Slowly she examines an ancient spider's web.

"You're done," I say abruptly through chattering teeth, scooping her up and depositing her on the floor inside. I close the door quickly to prevent the other cats from entering, then start up the stairs, back to my room.

Warmth. Much too cold outside. Yawn. Sleepy. Damn cat.