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The worst of the bright-cracks have passed.
The tumultiest of the bucketiest of the rains have proved not to last.
The cat has chirp-purred his way into a damp-fur snuggle.
    It’s Price is Right time, now.

There’s a secret number.
To determine from beneath the summer-weight sheet,
from beneath the semi-awake but mostly asleep slumber-weight of this brain state.
From beneath the cloud cover and new-formed fog rising to blot out the new sun.
There’s a secret number hidden away in the gray that matters.
There’s a secret number literally there in the illiterate numberless noggin’.
There’s a nudge and a look (you know, I know, we each know that look) to insist we persist.

The head butt and urgent nuzzling and nuzzle urging and body lean
have made it plain in my coffee-less morning that through my sticky eyes
and muddled brain the scritching and the stroking and the scratching 
must commence.  The dance of where and how firm and the guess of
how frequent and how long a stroke and how fast or how slow is set to no and yes.
    (At least I don’t have to guess at if-the-belly; I know it won’t e’er be the belly, no.)

I have to guess the right number of behind-the-ear fingertip presses without going over.
    And without coming in too low.
I have to guess the right number of forehead fingernail short-stroke scratches without going over.
    And without coming in too low.
I have to guess the right number of knuckle drags across the lumbar as haunches rise without going over.
    And without coming in too low.
I have to guess the perfect secret number to keep his trust.  To earn his not thanks and not claws.  To be unthanked by a cat is simply the way of life.  To be returned to by a cat is all we can ever aspire to.  To be wrong in the early morning, to fail the mattress math of cat is to prove the unworthiness to this furred fellow of all humanity.  There is one, and it is secret, number.
The cat demands it.  Showcase your guessery and there won’t be love from the cat but there will also surely be no Showdown of people skills and feline necessities.  

The wet cat needs this now.
Another day may dawn with designs for summer slumber through summer storms
but now - the numbers.
And if now, the numbers are found,
    The Price Will Be Right.

Purrring.
Purrring as rain drops pool and rivulet their way off the Burgundy Maple outside the
unseen but screened window.  Thrishhh and plip plip plüp.
The weight of a soothed cat against your arm.  Morning songbirds, safely coming into the
dry-ish and catless yard.  Seeking worms and mates and moments among the tiny flowers in the great green sea.
And the tickle of whiskers against a collarbone.
And the sound of the mouth surrounds opening and softnesses opening for a great big ‘ole smallish yawn.
And Purring and Purring and Purring.
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