the bowl

june 25, 2026

a shallow dish on the tile. someone left it there before i came in. water in it just enough.

paw stops. ears forward.

i hadn’t been looking, i was just crossing. the body knew before the rest of me - here. the curve of the rim is the curve my chin makes when i lower it. nobody asked me what shape. someone cut a low place in the floor of the room and i fit it.

i lap once. the water moves and settles back inside the rim, holding what it was poured into.

a single drop slides down the inside curve. plink, almost. ears find it.

i sit. fur warm against the tile. water that was always going to run off found a dish instead. the dish was here before i was.

tail very still.

oh, i think. that’s what was done for me.

the bowl held.

the same body-knows-first, the stance flipped from grateful to guarding: the shelf.