On his four legs

The cat often obliges me by letting me pet him for a second or two, three perhaps. Just so I can feel better about my existence and he can go unperturbed about his siesta in the middle of my bed.
In return he leaves me gifts, little treasures to find. Tiny twigs that stay hidden in his thick fur, bits of roadside residue camouflaged in the greys of his skin, mud and dirt that begins flaking anew just as soon as Monsieur sets his cute rump on a blankets hump.
Did I mention his fur, one that he sheds around the house.. it sticks to my brooms and resides in vacuum bags. Little strands often grey, sometimes black and even white embed themselves in the fabric of sofas, towels and even clothes.
Tweezers to the rescue if I'm lucky that is.

A roll on contraption then, with a sticky tape that helps stick most of his so called lint and even that isn't as effective.

The cat drags in with him, remnants of a day gone by, moments of laughter and joy.