While I had my job, I worked six or seven days and often 72 or 80 hours a week. I would leave Roger Mexico, my cat, in the morning with water and a bowl of dry food and return to feed him a can of wet food a dozen or so hours later. We would hang out a bit, then sleep, usually with him curled up next to me. Since he never went outside and had little reason to note the change of seasons or flow of hours, I suspect he began to mark time this way — with my return and the pleasures it would bring.
Then my job was taken, and I was suddenly home a lot.
I can only imagine how strange this must have been for Mexico, as though time had sped up dramatically. “What, you again?” he would say upon seeing me after I ducked out for an errand or a few hours at the library. “Is it tomorrow already?”