I’m sitting on the couch, legs crossed, feet tucked under my thighs, the image of Sleeping Beauty’s castle on a fleece throw covering my lap. My chamomile tea sits on the coffee table, steaming in a colorful mug. I’m waiting for it to cool. I open my book to the marked page, ready to dive back into the tale unfolding when she walks in. She stops when she sees me, stares at me with unblinking green eyes. A full stretch, first front legs, then back legs. Feline yoga poses. She proceeds forward and is up on the couch without a sound save the small silver bell around her neck. Sitting on her haunches at my knee, her back to me, she waits patiently for the strokes she is expecting, though her demeanor suggests I’m no concern of hers. I reach out and run my hand through her soft grey fur. I reach up a bit more to give her chin a scratch and she leans into it, maneuvering her head so I have access to her favorite spot just under her left ear. As if I’ve hit a switch she first leans to the left, then falls silently to her side, an indicator that she requires a full rubdown. I comply. She is sweet, accepting. At first. Then she bats a paw at my hand. “No bites,” I tell her. I continue to pet her. She licks my hand, an indicator that an attack is emminent. I pull my hand back, hoping to short circuit her predatory urge. It’s too late. She rolls over to face me, in the pose. I reach toward her scruff, again hoping to deter her, but she lunges, claws protruding, and as she wraps her front legs around my forearm, claws bared, sinking her teeth in deep, I wonder again, “why do I have a cat?”

(no animals were harmed in the writing of this story. based on true events. she still lives here, by the way.)