The wait

She watches with keen eyes, her vantage point scarcely a foot from the ground.  Her head hovers low, scanning the floor.  A crumble of cheese, a sticky noodle, one perfectly round pea.  She does not discriminate, gulping every morsel with sheer delight.  Her long pink tongue grazes her eyes as she savors every particle of her feast.  Never satisfied, she returns to her post, secretly wishing for a utensil mishap or an unfortunate (but not so unfortunate) spill.  Persistent attempts to redirect her away from the table always lead to mounting frustration.  Her selective hearing is consciously at play.  The familiar clatter signals the end of another meal.  Sharp nails hit the tile in quick clips as she makes her way over to the dishwasher.  She positions herself at the perfect angle to rid every plate of any remaining smudges of ketchup or gravy.  And just as a big hand reaches down to swat her away, she retreats, as if on her own agenda.  For tomorrow at the same hour she knows it will be dinnertime in the Hazel household again.