I always decide what we’re going to watch. Fortunately for him, I always decide we’re going to watch something fun. A few days ago I sat with my little guy as we had dinner, and I asked him if he’d seen the ads for that new series, Good Omens. “It looks okay,” I said. He shrugged as he worked on a carrot slice as large as a pizza disk, gnawing on it with the dedication of a professional mouse. My goodness, he’s such a lovely man. “We’re going to start watching it tonight,” I added, and he only responded by dropping the slice of carrot and pointing at the half-eaten chicken breast on my plate.
“Where are your manners, speck?” He switched his gaze from my chicken to my face, tight-lipped as his chin rose in defiance. “Chicken, woman! Now!” he chirped, and I felt the black-hole vacuum of a smile pull at my entire face. I had to bite the inside of my lower lip to contain it, but why do I bother? He knows I love him, and he knows he can get away with murder. Yes, literally. If he comes up to me tomorrow and tells me, “Hi Owner, I just murdered the president!” I’ll look down at him, yearn for a tattoo of his handprint on my toe, and whisper drunkenly, “I wondered where you’d gone. Sex now.”
So I tugged at my breast (of chicken) while he tugged at my breast (of heart), and gave him a thin strand of it, wet with the tangy sauce in which I’d cooked it, the perfect alibi for my tongue, later… when it was time to clean him. We ate, and after I washed my one dish for two and my one fork for one and my toy for one, we settled on my futon and I clicked on the TV. We watched the first episode, and as the credits rolled and the streaming service started the countdown for the next episode, my little guy squeaked from his parapet between my breasts.
“Owner, are you an angel or a demon?”
“What are you talking about, speckiest of specks?”
“Well, you shrank me. No one in the world can do that. No such power exists. So you must be… not of this earth.”
“Specky speckling, don’t I look human to you?”
“Shh. Be quiet. It’s starting.”
My speck was quiet for the most part, until he spouted, “Owner! You’re a witch!”
“Shh! What are you talking about?”
“That sign David St. Hubbins is holding reads that witches give cats funny names. You gave your cat a funny name. I’ve never heard a funnier name for a cat!”
“Shh! My cat’s name is not funny, it’s unique. Be quiet now.”
I didn’t hear him whisper, “witch, that’s how you shrank me.”
We went to bed after watching the second episode. Note I said we went to bed, and not to sleep. The next night was uneventful, and my specking specker was respectfully quiet during our viewing until the fourth episode. I admit I got a little excited when the Kraken came into view, occupying the entire screen. My tiny man exclaimed jokingly, “Owner, there you are! What happened to your face?”
“Do you see me that big?”
“Am I really that big to you?” I added, and there must have been some worrisome husk in the weight of my voice because I felt his whole body turn over as he looked up at me. I was staring at the screen and never waited for his answer as I reached for him and made him stop watching. He should have known better than to call me big. He knows how I feel about that. I didn’t feel guilty. Would you? It’s like feeling guilty about boiling water in a pot that belongs to you. You don’t feel guilty about using your own things… do you?
There was another moment during the last episode, when I lowered him to myself and pressed the rewind-ten-seconds button while he pressed another button, but I won’t spoil that for you. All you need to know is that I love watching TV with my little man, and I enjoyed Good Omens. He’d tell you he enjoyed it too, but he’s not allowed online. Not yet.