Catmint

“What is wrong with that cat?” Eowyn asked.

The cat was rolling and reveling enraptured all over a plant, a low plant with fuzzy grey-green leaves and dull purple blossoms; she had nearly crushed it to the ground. Eowyn had never seen such a sight. Cats at Edoras were hard working, conscientious, devoted to their art and craft of mousing. Minas Tirith cats always seemed to be lazing in the sun, or wrapping themselves around someone’s ankles. She had never seen one of these cats working; of course, she had not seen any signs of mice, either. Perhaps the cats took it in shifts, like the Citadel Guard.

“That cat? Oh, there’s nothing wrong with her, milady, just loves that catmint. Lady Finduilas had it brought from her garden at home, Dol Amroth. The plant serves no purpose at all, other than being pretty and pleasing the cats; but we’ve found our patients always seem to get a smile from watching their antics.”

Eowyn could not help but agree. She had come to the garden sad and drained by the burden of being alive; but watching the cat in its unconcerned delight had brought a smile to her lips. Cats live in the now; no cat worries about whether there will be mice tomorrow. A warm spot of sunshine, a patch of catmint to delight the senses, the certainty that somewhere there is a bowl of milk waiting. Perhaps today, I should be like a cat, Eowyn thought. Lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes, concentrating on the warmth, the distant singing of the birds, the soft sound of footsteps nearby.

“Might I join you, my lady?” a gentle voice asked.

A birthday present for Werecat - Februrary, 2006