Long before true dawn, Sandy
uncurls from behind my knees and
stretches like a Muslim at prayer.

Then, purring loudly, she marches
up my side, each paw pressing a ton
per square foot, and sits on my ribs.

“Time to go out,” she meows, until
I get up. She trots to the kitchen,
looking back to yowl, “hurry.”

I stagger hand-over-hand around
the counter, drop to a chair and slide
the door open. She sniffs the frost.

I close the door. “Not yet.” I open it
again, she steps into the gap sits
and purrs, “This will be just fine.”

When I try to nudge her out she bites
my toe, backs up a little and bounds
out like a kid jumping into a lake.

As I head back to bed I think, at least
she gave the risk of going out
more thought than Bush gave Iraq.

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