Active Listening

Miles peered through his clawed fingers. His long black whiskers twitched as if he were about to sneeze. He didn’t say anything.

“She made her living telling lies,” Harold continued staring at Miles, as if daring him to interrupt. “She said she loved me. She only wanted my money.”

Although Miles was pleased that Harold was making progress in his therapy (Miles was a licensed practitioner in Yorkshire), and was beginning to grasp that the lovely Lilith might have hired her new boyfriend to murder Harold, Miles was worried about Miles' sanity. Working with Harold was not only frustrating, time-consuming, and slow, working with Harold was having a negative impact on Miles perception of the world. Miles wisely kept his mouth shut, practicing his active listening.

Harold sniffled, then ambled over to the leather rocking chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh.

“And I don’t even have real tears to to…”

“Cry,” squeaked Miles, unable to continue his silence. He raised his right eyebrow mischievously, looking down at Harold. His tail, thick and long, moved back and forth of its own volition. He looked at it, and it obediently tucked itself against his body. His fur, a kaleidoscope of brown, gray, and black, covered most of his body. His beady but kind eyes sparked with intelligence.

“Harold, dear, pull yourself together. Shall we practice materializing today? That always makes you feel better, hmm? If you concentrate, you can make those eyes of yours blue, and then, why, maybe they can shed some of those tears? What do you say?”

Harold snuffed again, rubbing his nose with the top of his hand. His head started falling sideways, but Harold automatically caught it with his other hand.

“Nice save,” Miles said.

Harold scrunched his face, concentrating. Pink skin filled the holes in his head, and slowly, two very blue eyes began to form, covering the dark sockets.

“Jolly good,” Miles said.

“You think?”

“Absolutely stunning. Stop scrunching, Harold. You’ve got it! Go look in the bathroom mirror.”

Harold stood up from the rocking chair. His long boney legs, covered with, well, nothing, creaked. He walked across the floor, causing the dust to puff up around his boney toes.

“We really need a maid,” Miles said. “To do some spring cleaning.”

“Is it spring?”

“No, I believe it’s summer,” said Miles. “God-awful hot and dry season. It's not good for my fur.”