June 19 2015
I almost had it. At the tip of my tongue, the thing was.
What a projectile! What a speed! What a ball.
As He-who-tends-the-house-when-mom-and-dad-are-gone, his throw is accurate and devilish. He is a master ballman, I can tell. No one preceding him has ever tested my catching to such depth before him. Never has anyone thrown a ball like this man.
He is an interesting man. Shy, I think, because he comes to the house unsure of himself, his eyes taking in the room I eat, sleep, and live in. The cage between me and his uncertain posture. I am paranoid of his entering my house at first, because we have only met a few times. But, I remember his smell and my tail is soon thumping against the inside of my carrier.
When he goes outside-where-the-ball is, I offer him the sacred ball, for him to toss the ball and test my catch of the ball. He is reluctant, but I’m patient. He looks at the ball, studies the ball, scrutinizes the ball. His too-clean hands flex in silent anxiety. I’m used to this. Most act upon the sacredness of the ball as such. It is too much beauty for them to contain within their grasp, perhaps. I ponder sometimes if the ball burns their hands so that they must kick at it with their shoes.
But this one, he picks up the ball after the hesitance. And behold! the ball is across the yard! The game is begun! Over and over, we dance: the ball and I. The man is the moon under which I howl in harmony with the ball. It is our world, our game.
The man-who-throws-the-ball is a sly one, and quickly learns my strategy. Soon, he is testing my cunning catch, stretching the very material of my speed. He was a reserved human, uncertain, and very self-conscious, but I brought out the game in him. However, I cannot think upon such things when the game is afoot. The ball is All. There is nothing else. Catch, receive, admire, let go: that is the art of the game. All that you give away shall be tossed! into your direction: the secret, is for the ball to find you patiently ready.