Scaredy Cat

The knocking on my front door has Arugula just as confused as me, judging by the look on the multi-colored cat’s face. He glares up at me, like I’m the one who is to blame for this interruption into his morning self reflection period, when really, I just live here.

“Don’t glare at me like that.” I sigh, reaching out to press my bare foot against his chest. In retaliation, the cat rolls over onto his back, back paws pumping and thrusting my foot back toward me where it belongs. I snort, just as the sound comes again and sends him scampering into my bedroom.

“You’re the real Scaredy Cat,” I call lamely, though I’m already up from the couch and heading to my door while ticking off options in my head of who it could be.

Delivery people don’t knock. My family doesn’t visit, and neither of my best friends have texted me to say they’re coming over to kidnap me back to Chicago.