Jasmine didn’t care what was in my mug.
She just wanted to check it out for herself.
So I sat on the couch watching her nose twitch and holding a mug of cold water just where she couldn’t reach it and she swayed on her back legs, front paws reaching and wrapping around the mug’s cold edge.
She licked condensation from the bottom and fell and climbed up into my lap for a better angle, hopped to the back of the couch to try from there.
And finally the water was gone so I set the mug down, let her have it.
After knocking it over and hiding her head and shoulders inside it and tasting just to be sure, she lost interest.
It was just water, after all.
But when I picked it up again? Suddenly it was important, and she was back to stretching and sniffing and reaching and swaying on those back legs. Tiny feet caught at the handle and claws hooked over the edge and I lowered it slightly, let her inside again and sure enough, still water.
It didn’t seem to matter how many times she checked. Every time I picked it up, she wanted to see, again, what was inside. And every time it was water, and she lost interest.
And so we went, round and round, as an evening breeze picked up outside and the sun set and Alaska rattled in the plastic grocery bags behind the big, brown chair.
It’s cheap entertainment for both of us, anyway.