The mathematics of Friday morning make themselves known long before the freezer door opens — something in the air itself, a particular weight to the silence that suggests marrow bones are gathering themselves for distribution.

Ten past ten and the house holds its breath differently. Even the squirrel has paused its territorial negotiations to consider what approaches. Perhaps it knows something we do not. Perhaps they all do — these creatures that appear from nowhere, organize themselves according to principles we cannot fathom, then vanish again into whatever realm produces such strategic thinking.

Gus has positioned himself with characteristic precision near the freezer, as if seventeen degrees and partly cloudy were merely the opening movement of a symphony that concludes, inevitably, with frozen bones. His certainty is infectious. I find myself calculating distances — sofa to kitchen, kitchen to favorite corner, the exact trajectory a bone travels when properly delivered.

Friday mathematics. Some equations solve themselves.

#pawscarwilde

#frozenbonefriday