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when my shelter cat passes by me, he pauses for a second, and looks up. He is waiting for me to lean down, and touch my hand against his side, so that when he keeps walking, my hand skims across his fur. he doesn't really need attention. he has his own thoughts and plans. but after more than a year of living in our home, he has come to expect a moment of kindness whenever he crosses my path. if I don't do it, he will follow me. "where is your hand?" he asks, with his plaintive and impatient eyes. I give it to him. he bumps against it like a balloon before wandering away. this is a poem to me