I take cautious steps around the corner, my senses on high alert. My feet make no sound as I pace the room, but my dictation betrays my position—it cannot be helped.
I take a breath, a moment to refocus. She strikes. Claws pinch my leg as she lunges from the shadows. The nimble creature launches from my limb as I stumble, squawking. She watches my disgraceful display with amusement.
Or, she pounces as I drift off through the window. Soft and silent, she simply appears and head buts me into obedience. She kneads my lap with her claws, a constant reminder of my duties to attend her.
Writing with a cat is just asking for trouble—the worst kind. She is confident, persistent, and indifferent to personal boundaries and work hours. She has advanced offensive skills and the stealth of an assassin, which she uses daily to attack me with cuteness and nonsense. She has a keen sense for human urgency and enjoys confiscating my work chair right after I get up. She will only give up the warm keyboard for a sacrificial arm or leg for extended napping.
Though, sometimes she will stretch out and rest her paw on my cheek after I give her snuggles. Sometimes, after chasing the ghosts, she will push me over so that she can walk all over me and rub her face on mine. And sometimes she runs up and boops me on the nose just because.
Writing with a cat is like having a pint-sized predator with emotional needs claim squatter’s rights on your desk.
Still, I can’t imagine a sweeter writing buddy by my side, claws and all.