Housepets: Muse
Posted: Wed Mar 23, 2011 8:23 pm
Peanut loved her.
It was a very simple way of describing a very complex emotion, but he still thought it was the most fitting. After all, Occam's razor dictated that the simplest explanation was usually the best one, and he could think of nothing more pure and simple than that. He loved her.
It was also a very general statement, yet an appropriate one, because he loved everything about her. He loved the softness and warmth of her violet fur, and lamented his partial colorblindness, because he knew it prevented him from seeing her full richness and depth, as others did. He loved her eyes, which shone like gold, but were far more precious to him. He loved her body--yes, he could admit that to himself with only a modest amount of shame--from the edges of her rounded ears to the tip of her slender tail. He loved the soft purring sound she made when she was happy, but more than that, he loved to hear her speak; about what, it didn't particularly matter. She had a deep, yet sonorous voice, like a lounge singer, and he had spent many an evening simply listening to her talk about Pridelands, or catching mice, or even Maxwell, not for the conversation, but for the words themselves; every syllable that left her soft-furred lips was heaven to his keen ears.
She wasn't speaking now, but resting, sprawled upon the couch in the most undignified position he could imagine, lying upon her belly with an arm and a leg dangling off the edge of the sofa. She had a bed of her own, of course, but she rarely used it; the couch, the window, the top of the fridge... any reasonably level surface in the house would serve just as well. Her head was turned to face him, her eyes closed, a thin stream of drool trickling from her parted lips as she snored. Peanut couldn't help but smile; it was comforting to know that, despite her carefully groomed and maintained image, she too had her share of foibles.
He often wondered what she dreamed about. He could see the telltale signs, how her eyes darted beneath their lids, how her thin whiskers trembled upon her cheeks, how the tip of her tail twitched to and fro. As a dog, Peanut had no conception of what a cat's dreams entailed, of what fires lit the subconscious of the feline mind; he imagined that she dreamt of doing the same things she did while she was awake, hunting, reading, laughing... maybe even sleeping, in a weird sort of recursive loop. He also wondered, with a mixture of genuine curiosity, just a hint of arrogance, and more than a little hope, if she ever dreamed of him, as he did of her.
A sensation that was equal parts guilt and embarrassment washed over him, causing his cheeks to redden, and making him thankful that she was not awake to see it. He was quite certain that she did not dream about him the same way that he did about her, but he had no right to hope that she did, either. She was in a happy relationship with Maxwell, and it was not his place to interfere. On the contrary, it was his duty to be supportive of her, not only as her friend, but as her brother. He had promised her that he wouldn't be jealous any longer, and his fierce sense of canine loyalty demanded that he keep his word.
Besides, he was in a relationship too, if it could be called that. He had to admit that he rarely saw Tarot; she was almost never at home, and more often than not, Peanut didn't know where she was or what she was doing. When he asked, Sabrina would typically provide him with some vague, New Age answer about how Tarot was "astral projecting", or "between dimensions", or whatever. Once, the black cat had claimed that the Pomeranian had gone to the moon. It wasn't that Peanut doubted any of these answers--he had seen enough of magic and mysticism to know that they were probably true--but he just didn't understand them. Peanut liked to think of himself as an intelligent dog, but he knew nothing of the occult, and it flew in the face of all the knowledge he had gained from his considerable book-learning. Tarot and Sabrina were always brewing some potion or fighting hobgoblins or doing God-knows-what, and the world they lived in was quite literally separate from his own. He couldn't even begin to understand it, let alone take part in it.
In contrast, Peanut knew everything about his sister. He had known her for virtually her entire life, as well as most of his own, and there was very little they did not share. He knew her favorite meals, and her favorite brand of dog treats. He knew her favorite color--red--and had read her favorite books so that he might better understand her taste in literature. She didn't watch much television, but he knew that her favorite show was the Puppet Pals Power Hour, and that her favorite musical group was Journey.
He also knew that his attraction toward her was not mutual. He could not hold that against her--she was a cat, after all--but that didn't make it hurt any less.
Peanut sighed; why did things always have to be so complicated? Two years ago, he'd had no romantic desires at all, and he had been happy without them... but now, everything was different. There was a longing in his heart that hadn't been there before. Why? What had changed? Was he just getting old? He was only six... did that mean that things were only going to get worse?
She stirred where she lay, rolling onto her side, snapping him out of his self-pity and causing him to jump backward. He stood stone-still, for a moment, waiting to see if her eyes would open. They did not.
He sighed again. Right. Time to get to work.
He sat down upon the floor, folding his legs beneath him, and lifted the sketchpad into his lap. He started with her whiskers, as he always did. They were the simplest, requiring only a few dashes of his pen, and served to frame the features of her face, allowing him to move on to her eyes, and nose, and mouth, and the rest of her body in turn; even then, however, progress was slow. His nervous hands would shake, in the beginning, blurring his lines and causing unsightly smudges. They usually stopped after a few minutes, after he had managed to calm himself and settle into a proper rhythm, but the waiting made him grind his teeth together. He didn't have the time to waste.
Every stroke was made with painstaking effort, slow and deliberate. These were not his meager comics, drawn in frenzied bursts of creativity and bouts of frustration. Those were the crudely crafted toys of a child. She deserved better than that. He rarely colored them, partly due to his own inability to perceive the proper hues--he would have hated to color her green by mistake--and partly because he felt that none of the colors in his palette were appropriate for the task. For example, the color in his box of crayons that was the closest match to her eyes was yellow. But her eyes weren't yellow; they were a deep, rich gold, more lustrous and brilliant than anything Crayola had to offer. "Yellow" simply didn't do them justice.
Occasionally, she would shift position while she slept, turning this way or that, rolling onto her back, or her belly, or curling up into a fuzzy ball. These changes happened often, sometimes three or four times in an hour, and might have perturbed other artists, but not Peanut. His sister was a creature of habit, and she showed a strong preference for resting in a handful of given, if unorthodox poses. When she chose one that he was familiar with, he just flipped to the appropriate page in the sketchbook, and picked up where he had left off; when she came up with something new, or particularly unusual, he would simply start all over again. The hardest part was her tail, which incessantly twitched back and forth no matter what stance she took, making it difficult for him to capture on the pad.
He didn't know why he drew her. It wasn't as if he could actually show her his work, or for that matter, show anyone. His parents would probably think it was cute, and post it on the fridge for all to see; that wouldn't do. He knew better than to show any of the other dogs, after what had happened last time. And she... well, she wouldn't understand. But for that matter, neither did he. He wasn't making the pictures for his own enjoyment; he got enough of that simply by looking at her. He drew her because he had to, because he was compelled to, because Serendipity commanded that he put her image to paper. Da Vinci had his Mona Lisa, Botticelli had his Venus.
Peanut had her. He could think of no better source of inspiration.
Sometimes he felt guilty about it. He was fairly certain that this wasn't normal--in fact, a part of his mind assured him that it was actually pretty creepy--but he had no choice. If he had asked her to model for him, she probably would have said no; worse yet, she might have asked him why, and he had no explanation to give her. What was he supposed to say to her? That he watched her while she slept because of his art? Because it was the only opportunity he had to observe and study a feline figure up-close? Because she was breathtakingly beautiful? Because he couldn't get her out of his mind?
Because he was in love with her?
Peanut rubbed his eyes. Such thoughts were just a further waste of his time, which was in limited supply. She had been asleep for most of the day, which was unusual, even for her; while her catnaps were frequent, they seldom lasted very long. He was always afraid that she could wake up at any moment and catch him there, staring at her. For whatever reason, she slept soundly today, maybe something to do with the time change; he knew that she kept a very particular schedule. In any case, her heavy slumber was a rare opportunity for him, and he had to work quickly.
The hours ticked by slowly, but he was making progress. Many sketches that were nothing more than ghostly, disembodied faces became fuller, and fleshed out; limbless torsos grew arms and legs, bald, featureless heads gained fur, and ears. It wasn't until late in the afternoon when he stopped; his parents would be home soon, and they, like her, would no doubt have uncomfortable questions to ask if they were to spot him. He had already risen to his feet when a noise froze him where he stood: a soft whimper of a sound that came from somewhere in her throat.
Nightmares. Again.
She didn't have them often, but when she did, they were easy to spot. There was nothing else it could be, the way her ears splayed back and her breathing quickened. She would bare her teeth and flex her claws, digging them into the sofa cushions; her muscles would tense up beneath her fur, the length of her tail lashing about behind her in agitation. And the noises she would make... Peanut never knew she could make such sounds. She would hiss and growl in tones that she never used even when she was angry with him, or whimper and whine in a fearful pitch. But most of all, there was the expression on her face... Peanut knew hurt when he saw it.
It made him hurt, too.
He didn't know what it was she was seeing, but he knew that there had been a dark time in her life. She had never discussed her past with him, and he had never asked her. In all likelihood, he never would. It was not his place to pry into her private affairs, and if she wanted him to know, then she would tell him herself. He knew only that she had seen bad things, things that had left their mark upon her. Sometimes she would wake up in the middle of the night, sitting bolt upright, her eyes wide and her fur standing on end; Peanut believed that she would have awoken in a cold sweat, had it been possible for her to perspire.
As for himself, he could remember nothing before her. There was nothing before her; he had been young then, and she younger still, but as far as he was concerned, his life began the day he met her. The day he saw her alone in that cage, cowering in the dark. The day they had brought her home as part of the family. It wasn't possible for him to imagine life without her.
Archimedes said that, given a large enough lever, he could move the world. Peanut would have made the planet spin like a top for Grape.
He knelt down at her side, gently pressing his palm against her cheek. Her face was taut with that secret anguish, and Peanut could not bear to see her suffer. He would have done anything to take away her pain. He brushed his thumb against her whiskers, which were already quivering upon her cheek. He leaned forward, and for a moment, he hesitated.
But only for a moment.
Her fur was the softest thing he ever touched, but somehow, her lips seemed even softer. They felt pleasantly warm against his own, as did her breath as it washed over his face. Her scent filled his lungs, the aroma of grass and wildflowers, of freshly brewed hot chocolate, of her, sweeter than the smell of any rose. It was a fragrance his sensitive nose knew well, one that filled the house and haunted him while he slept.
The contact was brief, lasting only a few seconds. He was careful not to let it linger too long, lest he wake her, although he still found it hard to draw away; when he did, he saw that her breathing had calmed, and the previous tension seemed to have drained out of her body. Her anxious whimpering had given way to a soft, contented purr. It must have been his imagination, but for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw the corners of her mouth draw upward into a slight smile. That made him smile, too; if he could drive away her inner demons, if only for a short while, then a broken heart was a small price to pay.
As he made his way upstairs to his room, his steps were sluggish, made heavy by the weight he felt in his feet, and within his chest. He felt guilty again, guilty about taking something else without her permission, first her face, and now her kiss. He had broken his promise to her; he was jealous, despite how hard he tried not to be. He couldn't help how he felt. He had not asked to fall in love with her, and even if he had been given the choice, he was not certain if he would choose any differently. She was both the best and the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
He was a lousy friend... and an even worse brother.
The sketchpad was secreted away on his bookshelf, tucked between a dictionary and the collected works of Shakespeare. He had once hidden it beneath his mattress, but after she had found the photograph under his pillow, it was no longer safe there. She must never find it... she just wouldn't understand. He climbed into the basket that served as his bed, curling up beneath his blanket. His bed was the same as Grape's in every respect, the same size, the same shape, and every bit as comfortable. But there were times, like now, when it felt terribly lonely.
Peanut closed his eyes, and dreamed.
It was a very simple way of describing a very complex emotion, but he still thought it was the most fitting. After all, Occam's razor dictated that the simplest explanation was usually the best one, and he could think of nothing more pure and simple than that. He loved her.
It was also a very general statement, yet an appropriate one, because he loved everything about her. He loved the softness and warmth of her violet fur, and lamented his partial colorblindness, because he knew it prevented him from seeing her full richness and depth, as others did. He loved her eyes, which shone like gold, but were far more precious to him. He loved her body--yes, he could admit that to himself with only a modest amount of shame--from the edges of her rounded ears to the tip of her slender tail. He loved the soft purring sound she made when she was happy, but more than that, he loved to hear her speak; about what, it didn't particularly matter. She had a deep, yet sonorous voice, like a lounge singer, and he had spent many an evening simply listening to her talk about Pridelands, or catching mice, or even Maxwell, not for the conversation, but for the words themselves; every syllable that left her soft-furred lips was heaven to his keen ears.
She wasn't speaking now, but resting, sprawled upon the couch in the most undignified position he could imagine, lying upon her belly with an arm and a leg dangling off the edge of the sofa. She had a bed of her own, of course, but she rarely used it; the couch, the window, the top of the fridge... any reasonably level surface in the house would serve just as well. Her head was turned to face him, her eyes closed, a thin stream of drool trickling from her parted lips as she snored. Peanut couldn't help but smile; it was comforting to know that, despite her carefully groomed and maintained image, she too had her share of foibles.
He often wondered what she dreamed about. He could see the telltale signs, how her eyes darted beneath their lids, how her thin whiskers trembled upon her cheeks, how the tip of her tail twitched to and fro. As a dog, Peanut had no conception of what a cat's dreams entailed, of what fires lit the subconscious of the feline mind; he imagined that she dreamt of doing the same things she did while she was awake, hunting, reading, laughing... maybe even sleeping, in a weird sort of recursive loop. He also wondered, with a mixture of genuine curiosity, just a hint of arrogance, and more than a little hope, if she ever dreamed of him, as he did of her.
A sensation that was equal parts guilt and embarrassment washed over him, causing his cheeks to redden, and making him thankful that she was not awake to see it. He was quite certain that she did not dream about him the same way that he did about her, but he had no right to hope that she did, either. She was in a happy relationship with Maxwell, and it was not his place to interfere. On the contrary, it was his duty to be supportive of her, not only as her friend, but as her brother. He had promised her that he wouldn't be jealous any longer, and his fierce sense of canine loyalty demanded that he keep his word.
Besides, he was in a relationship too, if it could be called that. He had to admit that he rarely saw Tarot; she was almost never at home, and more often than not, Peanut didn't know where she was or what she was doing. When he asked, Sabrina would typically provide him with some vague, New Age answer about how Tarot was "astral projecting", or "between dimensions", or whatever. Once, the black cat had claimed that the Pomeranian had gone to the moon. It wasn't that Peanut doubted any of these answers--he had seen enough of magic and mysticism to know that they were probably true--but he just didn't understand them. Peanut liked to think of himself as an intelligent dog, but he knew nothing of the occult, and it flew in the face of all the knowledge he had gained from his considerable book-learning. Tarot and Sabrina were always brewing some potion or fighting hobgoblins or doing God-knows-what, and the world they lived in was quite literally separate from his own. He couldn't even begin to understand it, let alone take part in it.
In contrast, Peanut knew everything about his sister. He had known her for virtually her entire life, as well as most of his own, and there was very little they did not share. He knew her favorite meals, and her favorite brand of dog treats. He knew her favorite color--red--and had read her favorite books so that he might better understand her taste in literature. She didn't watch much television, but he knew that her favorite show was the Puppet Pals Power Hour, and that her favorite musical group was Journey.
He also knew that his attraction toward her was not mutual. He could not hold that against her--she was a cat, after all--but that didn't make it hurt any less.
Peanut sighed; why did things always have to be so complicated? Two years ago, he'd had no romantic desires at all, and he had been happy without them... but now, everything was different. There was a longing in his heart that hadn't been there before. Why? What had changed? Was he just getting old? He was only six... did that mean that things were only going to get worse?
She stirred where she lay, rolling onto her side, snapping him out of his self-pity and causing him to jump backward. He stood stone-still, for a moment, waiting to see if her eyes would open. They did not.
He sighed again. Right. Time to get to work.
He sat down upon the floor, folding his legs beneath him, and lifted the sketchpad into his lap. He started with her whiskers, as he always did. They were the simplest, requiring only a few dashes of his pen, and served to frame the features of her face, allowing him to move on to her eyes, and nose, and mouth, and the rest of her body in turn; even then, however, progress was slow. His nervous hands would shake, in the beginning, blurring his lines and causing unsightly smudges. They usually stopped after a few minutes, after he had managed to calm himself and settle into a proper rhythm, but the waiting made him grind his teeth together. He didn't have the time to waste.
Every stroke was made with painstaking effort, slow and deliberate. These were not his meager comics, drawn in frenzied bursts of creativity and bouts of frustration. Those were the crudely crafted toys of a child. She deserved better than that. He rarely colored them, partly due to his own inability to perceive the proper hues--he would have hated to color her green by mistake--and partly because he felt that none of the colors in his palette were appropriate for the task. For example, the color in his box of crayons that was the closest match to her eyes was yellow. But her eyes weren't yellow; they were a deep, rich gold, more lustrous and brilliant than anything Crayola had to offer. "Yellow" simply didn't do them justice.
Occasionally, she would shift position while she slept, turning this way or that, rolling onto her back, or her belly, or curling up into a fuzzy ball. These changes happened often, sometimes three or four times in an hour, and might have perturbed other artists, but not Peanut. His sister was a creature of habit, and she showed a strong preference for resting in a handful of given, if unorthodox poses. When she chose one that he was familiar with, he just flipped to the appropriate page in the sketchbook, and picked up where he had left off; when she came up with something new, or particularly unusual, he would simply start all over again. The hardest part was her tail, which incessantly twitched back and forth no matter what stance she took, making it difficult for him to capture on the pad.
He didn't know why he drew her. It wasn't as if he could actually show her his work, or for that matter, show anyone. His parents would probably think it was cute, and post it on the fridge for all to see; that wouldn't do. He knew better than to show any of the other dogs, after what had happened last time. And she... well, she wouldn't understand. But for that matter, neither did he. He wasn't making the pictures for his own enjoyment; he got enough of that simply by looking at her. He drew her because he had to, because he was compelled to, because Serendipity commanded that he put her image to paper. Da Vinci had his Mona Lisa, Botticelli had his Venus.
Peanut had her. He could think of no better source of inspiration.
Sometimes he felt guilty about it. He was fairly certain that this wasn't normal--in fact, a part of his mind assured him that it was actually pretty creepy--but he had no choice. If he had asked her to model for him, she probably would have said no; worse yet, she might have asked him why, and he had no explanation to give her. What was he supposed to say to her? That he watched her while she slept because of his art? Because it was the only opportunity he had to observe and study a feline figure up-close? Because she was breathtakingly beautiful? Because he couldn't get her out of his mind?
Because he was in love with her?
Peanut rubbed his eyes. Such thoughts were just a further waste of his time, which was in limited supply. She had been asleep for most of the day, which was unusual, even for her; while her catnaps were frequent, they seldom lasted very long. He was always afraid that she could wake up at any moment and catch him there, staring at her. For whatever reason, she slept soundly today, maybe something to do with the time change; he knew that she kept a very particular schedule. In any case, her heavy slumber was a rare opportunity for him, and he had to work quickly.
The hours ticked by slowly, but he was making progress. Many sketches that were nothing more than ghostly, disembodied faces became fuller, and fleshed out; limbless torsos grew arms and legs, bald, featureless heads gained fur, and ears. It wasn't until late in the afternoon when he stopped; his parents would be home soon, and they, like her, would no doubt have uncomfortable questions to ask if they were to spot him. He had already risen to his feet when a noise froze him where he stood: a soft whimper of a sound that came from somewhere in her throat.
Nightmares. Again.
She didn't have them often, but when she did, they were easy to spot. There was nothing else it could be, the way her ears splayed back and her breathing quickened. She would bare her teeth and flex her claws, digging them into the sofa cushions; her muscles would tense up beneath her fur, the length of her tail lashing about behind her in agitation. And the noises she would make... Peanut never knew she could make such sounds. She would hiss and growl in tones that she never used even when she was angry with him, or whimper and whine in a fearful pitch. But most of all, there was the expression on her face... Peanut knew hurt when he saw it.
It made him hurt, too.
He didn't know what it was she was seeing, but he knew that there had been a dark time in her life. She had never discussed her past with him, and he had never asked her. In all likelihood, he never would. It was not his place to pry into her private affairs, and if she wanted him to know, then she would tell him herself. He knew only that she had seen bad things, things that had left their mark upon her. Sometimes she would wake up in the middle of the night, sitting bolt upright, her eyes wide and her fur standing on end; Peanut believed that she would have awoken in a cold sweat, had it been possible for her to perspire.
As for himself, he could remember nothing before her. There was nothing before her; he had been young then, and she younger still, but as far as he was concerned, his life began the day he met her. The day he saw her alone in that cage, cowering in the dark. The day they had brought her home as part of the family. It wasn't possible for him to imagine life without her.
Archimedes said that, given a large enough lever, he could move the world. Peanut would have made the planet spin like a top for Grape.
He knelt down at her side, gently pressing his palm against her cheek. Her face was taut with that secret anguish, and Peanut could not bear to see her suffer. He would have done anything to take away her pain. He brushed his thumb against her whiskers, which were already quivering upon her cheek. He leaned forward, and for a moment, he hesitated.
But only for a moment.
Her fur was the softest thing he ever touched, but somehow, her lips seemed even softer. They felt pleasantly warm against his own, as did her breath as it washed over his face. Her scent filled his lungs, the aroma of grass and wildflowers, of freshly brewed hot chocolate, of her, sweeter than the smell of any rose. It was a fragrance his sensitive nose knew well, one that filled the house and haunted him while he slept.
The contact was brief, lasting only a few seconds. He was careful not to let it linger too long, lest he wake her, although he still found it hard to draw away; when he did, he saw that her breathing had calmed, and the previous tension seemed to have drained out of her body. Her anxious whimpering had given way to a soft, contented purr. It must have been his imagination, but for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw the corners of her mouth draw upward into a slight smile. That made him smile, too; if he could drive away her inner demons, if only for a short while, then a broken heart was a small price to pay.
As he made his way upstairs to his room, his steps were sluggish, made heavy by the weight he felt in his feet, and within his chest. He felt guilty again, guilty about taking something else without her permission, first her face, and now her kiss. He had broken his promise to her; he was jealous, despite how hard he tried not to be. He couldn't help how he felt. He had not asked to fall in love with her, and even if he had been given the choice, he was not certain if he would choose any differently. She was both the best and the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
He was a lousy friend... and an even worse brother.
The sketchpad was secreted away on his bookshelf, tucked between a dictionary and the collected works of Shakespeare. He had once hidden it beneath his mattress, but after she had found the photograph under his pillow, it was no longer safe there. She must never find it... she just wouldn't understand. He climbed into the basket that served as his bed, curling up beneath his blanket. His bed was the same as Grape's in every respect, the same size, the same shape, and every bit as comfortable. But there were times, like now, when it felt terribly lonely.
Peanut closed his eyes, and dreamed.