For Boots

Cara Siebert

I’m sorry again for interrupting your nap. Well, not that sorry. It’s only that you were lying there, on a pile of stockings, so warm, so soft, so tantalizingly pliable.

I just had to pick you up. It would have been a crime not to. You understand (no you don’t). I carried you over to the couch, arranged you on top of my stomach, deepening my breathing, trying to entice you to stay, please stay, fall asleep on top of me.

And you cooed and purred like an infant, swat! An infant with claws. And fangs.

But still I held you against my neck (please mind the throat). I breathed in your sweet kitty smell like laundry, and kibble, and my mother’s hand lotion.

It was a perfect five minutes until you started to squirm away, preparing your rabbity feet for a stomp. Okay, fine. I know when I’m not wanted.

Just one more hug. I savored the feel of your fourteen pounds of wriggly, squirming, rage-filled life, before I had to let you go