Small Expectations

The sun was a tired, orange coin that had slipped behind the jagged teeth of the city skyline. Viola, a calico of unremittant rage and fierce territorial loyalty, watched the light fade from her perch on the velvet-upholstered arm of the living room sofa. This apartment was usually a vibrant hum of human presence. It had settled into an eerie, early, and unnerving silence.

6:52.

She knew the time not by the sleek, digital clock on the microwave—a cold, alien thing—but by the rhythmic clink-whirr of the ancient radiator kicking on in the hallway and the distinct, nasal honk of Mr. Andersen’s taxi arriving two floors below them. More importantly, she knew it by the internal clock that ruled over all things important, and that was that it was dinner time.

Seven o’clock is when the can opens.

Her human, Mariah, had committed the preeminent sin: she had just left. Not just for a quick trip to the mailbox or the garbage chute, which Viola tolerated with mild, sleepy disdain. No, this was a leaving. A dressing-up, perfume-spraying, door-locking departure that smelled of intentions and promises: a vast and immeasurable expanse of time.

Viola stretched, a long, languid ripple of muscle and bone, ending with the satisfying click of her claws retracting from the velvet. She hopped down, landing with silent precision on the polished wood floor. Her tail was usually held high with the banner-like confidence of a queen. Tonight it dragged slightly.

The apartment was suddenly much too big. Every room seemed to stretch out, the shadows pooling in the corners like dark, stagnant waters. The silence wasn't true silence; it was worse. It was the absence of a specific sound: Mariah's voice, the soft thump of her bare feet, the rustle of her pages as she read. It was unbearably quiet. She began to hear sounds from neighbors going about their day.

Viola patrolled every corner, dutifully, before she allowed her full resignation to settle in.

The kitchen was sterile and cold. She could never reach the can opener on the counter. She had no thumbs to work it’s magic if she could. She sniffed the floor near the food bowl. Empty. A clean, white ceramic reminder of the injustice. Her stomach offered a low, grumbling counterpoint to the city’s distant roar. It was a hollow and echoing sound. It wasn’t the satisfied fullness she craved.

The hunger begins.

She slinked into the bedroom. The air was thick with Mariah’s scent—jasmine and old paper and a faint, comforting trace of sweat. Viola jumped onto the mattress, making biscuits in the pillow with her paws. It was an old, comforting ritual. She pressed her face into the indent where Mariah’s head usually rested, inhaling deeply. It was only a ghost of comfort, not the real thing at all.

The worst part of a leaving was the uncertainty. Humans were so unreliable. They promised permanence with their presence, and then, without warning, they just evaporated. Where was she? Who was she with? Did they have cans? Did she know Viola was starving?

The minutes were no longer flowing; they were solidifying, hardening into heavy, unmoving blocks. The clock’s tick beat like a hammer into her hungry night.

7:22.

The soundscape of the apartment building took over.

Drip, drip, drip—the persistent, maddening leak in the sink drain, a tiny clock marking the slow death of hope.

Thump-thump-thump—Mrs. Rodriguez's terrible taste in late-night soap operas, the bass vibrating through the shared floorboards.

Screeeee—the elevator cable, ascending and descending, a metallic sigh of constant movement that never stopped on their floor to deliver the one thing that mattered.

All of these noise were usually just a distant backdrop to her and Viola’s life. They all seemed to take on a different and sinister demeanor without her bringing so much light into the life of the apartment.

Viola felt the first surge of true despair. It wasn't just the hunger; it was the lonliness. She was the Guardian of the Space, the Keeper of the Sofa, the Designated Recipient of Affection, and her post was empty. The world had tilted. Everything was just ever so askew. She felt as a person wearing the wrong prescription glasses. Trying to look at her situation, but her perspective is as off as her stomach.

She stalked ever to the window, the cold glass a shock against her warm nose. Her hunger was showing in her aggressive movements, although she had never killed in her whole life. The streetlights glared, creating confusing patterns on the wet asphalt. She could see the blur of movement, the hurried, unconcerned lives of others. None of them knew the gravity of the situation inside this apartment: A cat, a very important cat, was being systematically ignored.

7:45.

She jumped onto the windowsill and began her ritualistic calling. It started as a low, mournful rumble, deep in her chest. A sound of profound, weary disappointment.

Mrow. Mroooow.

It escalated, gaining some higher volume and pitch. A keen, but piercing lament – it was designed to penetrate solid walls. It was made to guilt the very stones of the foundation. It was the sound of a small soul confronting an existential crisis. The angst of it was just unreasonable…

MEOOOOW! MEOW! MEEE-YOWL!

She paced the sill, weaving her body in figure-eights, looking out, then back at the door, then out again. The sun was fully gone now. The temperature was dropping. Her moods was fouling even further. The room was bathed in the harsh, isolating glow of the street lights filtered through the blinds.

The wait was transforming her sorrow into anger. Her tail began to twitch, a rapid, irritated jerk.

She found a crumpled piece of paper on the floor—a forgotten receipt—and attacked it. She batted it, chased it, then pinned it down and delivered a series of precise, angry bites. Take that, bad date! Take that, empty can! Her hunting instincts were really rearing up the base of her spine as she crack her body like a whip to strike – over and over.

She needed to remind Mariah of the stakes of the thing…

Viola marched to the door—the Great Barrier. She sat directly in front of it, facing the wall, a silent, furry protestor. This was her final stand. She would wait here, cold and in abject hunger, until the betrayal was revised to her benefit.

8:17.

Then, the sound. The distinct, metallic clunk-jiggle of the key in the lock. Her soul lept, as did her heart in her chest.

Viola sprang up, every hair on end. Her sorrow evaporated, replaced by a pure, ecstatic relief.

The door swung inward, and there was Mariah.

Viola executed a perfect, acrobatic figure-eight around her ankles, purring so loudly the sound seemed to shake her small frame. You’re back! You’re here! Now, the can! The can! The can!

Mariah was pulling off her scarf, her face flushed. She looked tired, but relieved to be home.

"Oh, Viola, my little sweet little baby! Did you miss me?" Mariah bent down, scooping Viola up and holding her very close. That old familiar scent returned, warm and real.

Viola purred harder, but kept the goal in focus. She shifted in Mariah's arms, turning her head toward the kitchen. Put me down, human! There is a task! An essential, urgent, life-sustaining task!

Mariah carried her to the sofa and sat down, sighing tragically.

"You won’t believe my date, Vi. You just won’t."

Viola froze. This was wrong. This was entirely, fundamentally wrong. The sequence was: Arrival. Can. Cuddles. Not: Arrival. Complaining. No Can.

Mariah continued, obliviously scratching Viola gently behind the ears. "He talked about his yacht. For forty-five minutes. And it wasn't even a real yacht, Viola! It was a twenty-foot sailboat he keeps parked in a slip! He kept calling it his 'vessel of freedom.' I almost threw my wine on him."

Viola leaped off the sofa. Her patience, already worn thin, snapped. This self-pitying monologue was a hideous delay tactic.

She sat a few feet away, her body tense. She let out a short, sharp Mrow!—the sound of extreme disapproval.

Mariah didn't notice. "And then, when the waiter brought the bill, he tried to do that thing where he pretends he left his wallet at home! I swear, I almost paid for the whole thing just to get out of there."

Viola’s eyes narrowed. Hunger had become rage. She was no longer a sweet, missed pet; she was an insulted, starving despot.

She delivered a series of rapid, low-pitched complaints, flicking her tail aggressively. When this failed, she escalated. She launched herself onto the coffee table, directly in front of Mariah’s face, and began batting at the car keys Mariah had mercilessly placed next to a vase. Distraction! Chaos! Immediacy is required!

"Viola! Stop that, sweetie. I’m having a moment here." Mariah reached out to stroke her.

Viola dodged the hand. She stood her full height, arched her back, and issued the ultimate noise: the rasping, gut-wrenching, truly terrifying YOWWWLLLL of a cat pushed to the absolute brink. It was a sound that meant: I AM DYING. GET THE CAN. NOW.

It worked so well.

Mariah stared at her, her expression finally shifting from self-pity to a sudden and guilty realization.

"Oh, sweetheart," Mariah whispered, horror dawning on her face. "You haven’t eaten, have you? You're starving! I completely forgot the time and then the awful date... I am so sorry!"

Mariah shot up from the sofa. Viola watched, rigid, as the human flew into the kitchen. The sounds that followed were the most beautiful music Viola had ever heard: the clatter of the can opener, the whoosh of air escaping the tin, the dull thud of the contents hitting her ceramic bowl.

Viola pranced into the kitchen, her integrity carefully restored. She did not rush. She did not grovel. She simply presented herself at the bowl.

The food was perfect: Salmon pate, her favorite. She ate with such rapid, focused efficiency, the small, satisfied crunch of her tongue against the bowl a counterpoint to the city sounds. There was no doubt that she was a predator.

As she finished the last morsel, a profound sense of peace washed over her. The world righted itself. The shadows receded. The apartment was once again a safe, warm haven.

Mariah was still standing there, leaning against the counter, watching her with a remorseful smile.

"I’m never leaving you for that long again, okay?" Mariah promised, reaching down to scratch Viola's back.

Viola permitted the touch. She stretched, a full, contented stretch this time, and then performed a final, gentle head-butt against Mariah's shin.

The crisis was over. Justice had been served. The human had learned her lesson.

Viola jumped onto the stool, then onto Mariah’s shoulder, settling down to purr—a deep, rumbling engine of forgiveness. The stories of terrible yachts and forgotten wallets could wait. For now, there was only the quiet presence of her human, the warmth of a full stomach, and the knowledge that, despite the temporary betrayals, all was well in their small, shared universe. The seven o'clock silence was finally, blissfully broken.