My glossy white fur munch is on my lap staring at me, his ears pinned close to his head. He has crawled here. Normally he takes a running leap and lands here, leaving black and blue prints as proof on my legs. This time, he has crawled from the bed. I look at the clock.
“Baby, it’s 11:11. Did you make a wish?” He tilts his head. “No. Nobody told you about 11:11? That’s so sad. I’m your mommy; it’s my job to tell you these things. At 11:11 you make a wish. What would you wish for my sweat bean?” He brings his neck to my mouth—the classic necklace move. He does it when he wants me to pay attention to nothing but him. The sucker knows how to obstruct my eyesight. I flip him over and rub his belly as we stare at one another. “I think you’d wish for a big yard, yes? With lots of flossies to chew and pigeons to drive you crazy. And, a sunny spot where you can lounge out, and a shaded area with cool clean water, yes?” He licks me with his pink tongue. “Ooh God, I love that pink tongue and your little pink belly. Can I eat you baby? Yes?" I smell his paws. Fritos. "May I kiss the bald spot?” My finger searches his chest for the one spot where no hair grows. “Yes? Oh don’t you be embarrassed. It’s a bald spot. I’m your mother. It’s okay. Yes, you’re my sweat bean.” With that, he wiggles loose and takes off. I really can’t blame him; he gets that from me. I hate hearing baby talk. Now he’s in the other room crunching his food. I love his sounds. I don’t ever want him to die. 11:12.