Missing Max

we had an arrangement,
Max and I; when the mister and
missus were away, we had our
own way of relating.
I’d walk in and call his name,
and he’d show up in the kitchen
in that lazy way he had, as if he were
always just waking up from a nap,
a bit put out to be awakened,
but moderately interested in
what I might have to offer.
I’d advertise
the treats as I loaded up his dish
with tuna fish and assorted yummy,
crunchy things that are supposed to be
good for his teeth.
He’d saunter up, stopping approximately
seventeen inches from his bowl and wait,
his back slightly arched, a bit
irritated that he had to remind me
again that even though he may recognize
that I was allergic to cats, that was my
problem, not his;
he was waiting to be stroked, his way,
the exact number of times he wanted,
and once he was satisfied, he’d
continue that Max saunter up to
his bowl and get down to business.
My tasks completed, I was
dismissed, as only a cat can do.