Being Held Hostage By Cats


I’m being held hostage by cats.

In bed. Two cats settled between my legs.

They joined me, politely enough, and then expanded, like freezing water. Now they sleep and stretch and fortify their position.

I lift the sheets, disrupt their field. Edge them up so I can swing my legs. But they shift with the tilted plane, mocking gravity. Mocking me.

I reach for the white one—he’s the leader—and gently slide my hand under his warm torso to edge him up.

But he just sniffs and nestles back into his brother, like an anchor finding ground.

I reach for the brown one, he’s lighter. I tickle his chin, but he lifts it up, in this somnambulist state, indicating his reception to the pleasure.

They continue to expand like ice in cracks.

One starts to click, a trick of the air, as he breathes out, softly, a faint percussion.

One starts to twitch. His whiskers flash, his nervous system replays the day’s events. The memory hits his ear, and that twitches, too.

One yawns, a foul breath of Tantalizing Turkey soaks the air.

The other stretches, testing the elasticity of his claws and jaws and the patience of his brother, whose head is in the same vector.

Suited and stretched, once again they curl, like recoiled springs, back to warm pockets, back to each other, to me.

Shifting my legs to join their space is what I was doing, am doing, what I will be doing for a while. And I don’t want to get up anyway. Nor be in charge. This is more satisfying. Maybe this is what I wanted all along.

As they continue to expand.



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