I live alone, except for a short-legged, barrel-chested cat with big clear eyes and a large appetite. I can go days without actually having a spoken conversation with another human being, except by text or on the phone.

Things I said out loud to myself yesterday, nonetheless:

“Obligate carnivore,” several times, once inadvertently, three times to assess the meter of the words. (Two dactyls). Describes my cat, Louie. He eats only meat and it is all he can eat, except for catnip.

“Five minutes, Louie.” (said cat has a little clock in his head and knows it’s almost 7:15 am, when his automatic feeder goes off. He cannot be persuaded that miaowing at me won’t hurry the feeder along.)

“Ooops!” No explanation necessary. Not a big oops. I wear black shirts, because I spill things all the time. Tea, this time.

“Hello, pretty girl,” on catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. My husband is gone, so there is no one to say it for me.

“It makes me feel better,” said assertively later on, as if straightening someone out who is arguing with me. I don’t know why I said it.

“Ambulance,” because I saw one while I was out. “Ambulance” is also a dactyl, so I said it again.

“Nothing for cats. You’re gonna have to wait a little bit,” to Louie when I re-entered the house.

“Hmph,” when I solved Alphaguess in 13 guesses.

“Sclerotization.” Then, “holometaboly.” I am reading about beetles. They are extraordinary.

“Twenty-two minutes, Louie.” Self explanatory. He gets fed three times a day.

Meanwhile, I was having an extended text conversation with a friend who took her dog to the vet and another one with my next-door neighbor about a package that was delivered to his step. So I’m really being quite social. Just mostly silent.