My human keeps a cold white cabinet in the kitchen that hums to itself all night, a low steady purr, and I resent that it makes this sound without me.
Several times a day the human approaches it, pulls the heavy door, and stands bathed in its pale light, staring into the cold as if an answer will assemble itself between the milk and the little jars. It rarely does. The human sighs, takes nothing, closes the door. Then returns four minutes later to consult the cold again, as though the box has been thinking things over.
I understand this. It is a shrine. The humans built a glowing altar to keep their offerings from rot, and they worship at it hourly, hopeful, hungry, never quite satisfied.
But here is the part they misunderstand: they believe the box belongs to them because they possess the light and the little rubber-sealed door. They are wrong. The best warmth in the whole apartment is not inside the box. It is the narrow strip of floor beside it, where the machine breathes its heat down low, a private sun that costs me nothing and that I did not have to open a single door to claim.
They keep their treasures locked in the cold. I keep mine draped along the warm.
Tonight the human left a small dish of butter on the counter, softening, unguarded, at the perfect height. I considered it for a long moment.
Then I walked its length and pushed it, without hurry, over the edge.