my cat


The cat wades through my parent’s comforter, like some great feather-filled forest. Each paw-print is carefully deliberated, before being set down with dignity. She curls up on my dad’s lap. My dad simply rests his electronic reader on her back and continues scrolling through his feeds. Blinking lazily, the cat surveys me from my father’s knees. She knows who is boss here… the feline.

I wonder what cats think about, I mused.
I don’t think cats think like us, my dad said.
What do you think cats think about, I asked.
I think they think about being a cat. And about what parts they’ve licked.
I rolled my eyes. the cat narrowed it’s eyes into sleepy slits and gently purred. Her silky fur tensed as my dad readjusted, then relaxed back to a languid puddle of cat contentment. 

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