Call to Order
There is a committee that meets in my house every morning.
Attendance is mandatory.
Captain arrives first, because Captain believes rules exist for a reason. He sits politely near the kitchen, ready for the day’s agenda to begin. If there were bylaws, he’d have them memorized.
Morgan arrives second, usually at speed and with a completely unrelated proposal. His platform changes daily but generally includes more tennis balls, fewer delays, and immediate implementation of breakfast. Procedure, in Morgan’s view, is whatever gets us to bacon faster.
Winston does not attend.
At least not at first.
He prefers to make an entrance after everyone else has taken a position. He’ll stroll through the room with the quiet confidence of someone who knows the meeting can’t really begin until he’s acknowledged. He offers no motions, no seconds, no debate. He simply jumps onto a chair and stares at us as if to ask whether we’ve finished pretending this is a democracy.
It is, admittedly, an unconventional governing body.
Captain advocates for order.
Morgan advocates for enthusiasm.
Winston advocates for Winston.
Somehow, despite these philosophical differences, they manage to coexist.
Captain has learned that Winston gets windowsills.
Winston has accepted that dogs occasionally stampede through the living room in pursuit of imaginary emergencies.
Morgan has accepted… well, Morgan hasn’t accepted much of anything. But he’s young. Optimism has always mistaken itself for policy.
There are negotiations I never see. Invisible treaties over favorite spots on the rug. Understandings about who drinks first and who waits. Tiny adjustments made without speeches, hashtags, or declarations of principle.
No one keeps score.
No one demands an apology for something that happened three Tuesdays ago.
The committee simply reconvenes tomorrow.
Every evening the committee adjourns. Captain curls up near the couch. Morgan collapses wherever exhaustion catches him. Winston disappears to some secret feline obligation known only to cats.
It’s an oddly sophisticated arrangement for three creatures who occasionally lick themselves in public.
The house grows quiet.
And somehow, by morning, everyone has a place at the table.
