The Book Goddess Reads

It has come to my attention that my human believes Sunday is a day of “rest”.

This is technically correct.

I rest.

She remains available for catering, blanket adjustment and admiration.

Sunday is an important day in this household. There are beds to inspect. Windows to stare through. Rooms to walk into and immediately forget why I am there. And, naturally, meals to request approximately fourteen minutes after the previous meal.

I also supervise the reading.

My human likes to sit down with a book, arrange a blanket, make herself comfortable and apparently believe she has created this pleasant little scene all by herself.

Incorrect.

I am the atmosphere.

Sometimes I sit beside her. Sometimes I climb onto the blanket she has just painstakingly arranged. Sometimes I merely stand nearby and stare at her until she begins anxiously checking whether I require something.

I usually do.

Food.

She reads the words. I contribute emotional depth.

It is an excellent system.

I personally have very little interest in books. They contain an alarming number of pages and absolutely no gravy. But I understand they are important to my human, so I graciously allow them into our home.

I have even discovered that books have their uses. They make excellent things to sit in front of when someone is trying to photograph them, and they reliably cause humans to remain stationary for long periods, creating premium lap opportunities.

Perhaps I have underestimated literature.

There is, however, something I understand very well about a quiet Sunday.

Humans seem to think a day must contain Achievements.

Plans.

Tasks.

Possibly something involving laundry.

Cats know better.

Sometimes a perfectly respectable day consists of a warm room, a favourite chair, somebody you love nearby and absolutely no intention of being productive.

You may call this laziness.

I call it expert-level living.

And perhaps that is what makes all these little reading rituals important too. One day my human probably won’t remember every plot she read or every character’s name.

But she might pick up an old book and remember the Sunday she read it with me curled beside her.

Or on her.

Or directly across the pages.

Whichever was least convenient.

That seems rather nice.

Anyway, I must go.

My human has been sitting quietly for several minutes and appears dangerously close to believing she is allowed to relax unsupervised.

Obviously I cannot permit that.

— Smudge 🖤

Senior Reading Supervisor, Household Management Consultant and Starving Victorian Orphan