On the Piano
I move to the lid of the piano. The maneuver is clean. Silent. From this height, I observe the household without participating in it, which is, of course, as it should be.
Below me, the room reorganizes itself—poorly. The parrots fly this way and that. The monkeys scurry up and down tree branches without rhyme or reason. The leopard swats a fly.
It is into this unsettling ambiance that an intruder arrives.
No announcement is made. No one says a word. There is only a soft, slow shuffle across the rug.
I open one eye.
The spiny mammal moves with the confidence of a creature who has never been chased. It is self-possessed.
The monkeys notice it first. “What,” one gasps, clutching its tail, “is that?”
The intruder pauses near the center of the room.
The bloodhounds freeze.
The trespassing hedgehog continues forward, stops, and lifts its gaze to study the parrots.
The parrots retreat in silence and settle on the banister.
The leopard descends from his chair, takes one careful step toward the center, then waits.
The hedgehog does nothing.
Spot lurches forward, then yelps and skids backward, colliding with the piano bench. The leopard retreats. The monkeys scramble. The bloodhounds leap in opposite directions, tripping over each other in a tangle of paws, flopping ears and slimy jowls. The parrots explode upward, feathers everywhere.
The mermaid stands abruptly, sloshing her tea. “I knew this would happen,” she says.
The hedgehog—I observe from my elevated position—remains cool. I note its indifference with measured interest. It sniffs the air, then turns its nose upward.
Our eyes meet.
It regards me as if we are equals, and I incline my head. Barely.
The hedgehog blinks once, then calmly resumes its shuffle toward the far door.
The mermaid reclaims her chair.
Regal, I prevail over the household from my command post, tucking my paws beneath me and closing my eyes. A low rumbling sound escapes me. The vibration settles into my paws.
Tomorrow—I decide—I lay claim to the blue hallway.
