The bipeds passing my window seem to have other interests.  Perhaps I am unappealing - the dust of the shop has settled into my joints, my side which faces the pane of glass has become unevenly bleached and cracked.  Occasionally one or a pair will come in but they swoop past to buy peacock feathers, or ogle baby cows in jars.  This is not the afterlife I wanted.

My cat was strong, and lithe, and fast.  Together we would chase rats through the night traffic, crunch the bones of young birds, climb the rooftops of our city and stretch to our full length to lounge in the sun.  But now my cat is gone, and only I remain.

Oh, to move again!  But our muscles and tendons have wasted away.  I want to yowl for attention, but my jaw is stiff.  I want to hunt the glimmering beetles on the counter, but they are as dead as I am.  I will myself to topple over with every breeze as the bell tinkles and the door opens, but the wire that runs through me is secured too tight.

And then I hear a word I have never heard before, from a high voiced creature who drops a heavy case onto the counter.  Articulation.  I roll the word over, examining its rhythm.  AR-TIC-U-LAY-SHUN.  It has a movement all its own.  I am being pointed at, there is a somewhat rude question of me having all my parts.  The high voiced creature comes near.

I do not know what this means, but I have hope.