That evening, as I sat with a cup of tea and listened to a play on the radio,
she jumped onto my lap and began kneading my thighs with her paws, claws partially unsheathed.
It was slightly uncomfortable, but I could tell that she meant it kindly.
After doing that for a minute or so, she settled herself carefully onto my lap and went to sleep.
I needed to go to the bathroom about twenty minutes later,
a necessity exacerbated by the fact that she was far from slender and was lounging with her full body weight directly atop my bladder.
I tried to gently shift her to one side; she resisted. I tried again.
On the third attempt, she got to her feet slowly, arched her back and then shuddered out a long, judgmental sigh,
before dropping down onto the floor and waddling off toward her new bed.
Once ensconced there, she glared at me as I left the room, maintaining the expression when I returned,
and continued to glower at me throughout the evening.
I wasn’t worried. I’d dealt with far, far worse things than an irritated feline.
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