So different and yet so much the same as her predecessors, the shy little kitten had become a young feline, strong and agile, full of attitude, replete with studied indifference. I watched her move from cat tree to cat bed to a corner of crumpled covers where I had just been sleeping. As I stretched a hand out to cuddle her, she jumped lithely to the window seat where a bird chattered enticingly, yet comfortably, out of reach.
I lie here propped up with a million pillows, observer of the observing. Her view is limited by a screen and panes of glass; she would not welcome full access even if it were to tasty tweetful feathers. She is a shy and cautious cat, hesitant to accept a caress, hiding at the first sign of infringement on her space. Her favorite spot always wherever I am not.
I yearn to hold her silky soft and purring, feeling the weight of her relaxation as she melts into my lap. But no, her spot is high on my chest, as close to being wrapped around my neck as she once was when a wee fur ball tucked under my chin.
No, now, her big feet with the extra toes, pick the tenderest spot on my chest to plant themselves, whether coming or going from my furtive, stolen embraces.
