Max and a bag of treats

My friend has a cat named Max—a fluffy gray ball with moss-colored eyes and a way of moving that seems to always be one step ahead of his own shadow. When I come to visit, he greets me at the door not like a stranger, but like an old friend who knows by his steps that I'm holding something good in my hands.

My little ritual pleasure is to stop by the nearest pet store and pick out something new for him. I open the shelf, sniff the various aromas—chicken, salmon, baked cheese—and imagine him slowly savoring each crumb. Max always reacts to the package as if it were an invitation to a celebration: his ears perk up, his tail begins to wag gently, and his eyes beg for another story.

We play by rules we've silently devised: first, lazy purrs of the rope, then a hunt for an invisible mouse, and finally, a quiet moment when he settles down on my lap and begins to purr. His purr is a small, homey music that can drive away anxiety. Sometimes he pats my hand with his paw, as if checking: "Are you still with me?" I respond with a tickle under his chin, and he closes his eyes—a sign of absolute trust.

One day, I came home tired after a hard day. Max noticed it before words could. He climbed onto the chair, climbed onto my shoulder, and buried his nose in my palm. I opened the bag of treats, and as I watched him carefully accept each piece, I felt the tension of the day slowly fade away. At times like these, it seems the whole world fits into a warm meow and a piece of dried fish.

For my friend, Max is the gentle master of the apartment; for me, he's a little healer. I buy treats not only because I want to please him, but also because there's gratitude in this simple act: for his calm company, for those moments when he honestly shares his trust with me. Playing with him is like a wordless conversation, with enough room for both laughter and silence.

When I leave, Max watches me, sometimes sneaking up and noticing the last piece of food I left in my pocket. And I leave satiated by his purring and confident that tomorrow I'll stop by the store again and pick up another bag—not out of obligation, but out of gratitude for having a cat in this house who knows how to make the world a little warmer.