Dear Dee,
If you ask me - and nobody ever does - the best music in this house happens before breakfast.
That’s when she plods into the music room in her pyjamas, hair all sideways, still half‑asleep. She lifts the piano lid with that little sigh that means here we go again, and I take my favourite place underneath the piano - the softest spot, and the perfect listening booth for a cat of my experience.
She plays and hums the same scales she practised yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. Humans call it “practice.” I call it “a daily concert from the comfort of your own mat,” and I never miss it.
Some mornings her notes wobble - she sounds like a seagull after a chip. Other mornings they fly out clean and bright. I wouldn’t judge. You should hear my voice.
I’ve heard enough music to know the best bit isn’t getting it perfect - it’s the showing up, the keeping on going, even if you haven’t managed to get out of your pyjamas yet. I wouldn’t judge. I never get dressed.
From my spot under the piano, I watch her feet dance on the pedals. I hear her humming the tricky bits before she dares sing them out loud. I see her shoulders relax, that little sigh of relief when something finally clicks - you’d honestly think it was never going to happen sometimes. And every time she smiles at a tiny bit of progress, my ears and tail do a little dance too. I feel a bit proud.
She probably thinks she’s practising alone, but she isn’t. I’m here. I’ve heard every wrong note, every bit of mess and magic, every sigh and every small win leading towards the final performance. And I get the biggest cuddles when she comes back home from the real concerts.
When she finishes her pyjama practice, she reaches down to scratch my head, as if to say, thanks for being here.
As if I’d ever be anywhere else - after pyjama practice, it’s time for our breakfast.
Happy Days (and purrs),
Jimmy
Pyjama Practise Watercolour, Pen and Ink 2024