Her movements are elegant, and she is never still. The hair on her ears is short and fine, and when she sleeps they flop inside-out. Her paws knead the carpet as she twitches through a dream (probably of rabbits).

She never sleeps late, but is too ladylike to bark on the weekends. Instead she rustles subtly by the bedroom door, eyes fixed on the lump of your blankets until they shift aside. Her tail metronomes for you when you sing in the shower.

By the time you’re up and about, she has slipped away to the window. She sits with poise, long legs straight against a deep chest, and would resemble a sphinx if her head didn’t crane back and forth so often. It would be regal, but she tilts it eagerly at an unfamiliar sound (it’s probably a rabbit).

There is a morning when her eyes don’t follow your bedclothes. Her ears are still soft and maleable; one is inside-out again. She is still elegant; most of all, she is still.

And you hope she is dreaming of rabbits.