Wednesday, January 4

My Kitten

I was scared to live by myself. Maybe it's my distaste for being in an empty house alone, my past of self-perpetuated sleeping anxieties, or my perfectly justifiable fear of mass-murders, but the idea just never (ever) sat well with me. (Ever.) But I knew without a doubt that I would be alright if I had one thing. A kitten.

A 3.8 lb, four month old kitten doesn't seem like it would banish monsters under beds or dissuade criminals from dreadful deeds, but you'd be surprised at what a tiny kitten can do.

The dark and cold nights are cozier with him. He sneaks under my blankets and cuddles up next to me while I sleep, and his purr (which starts the instant he comes near anyone) fills the whole room with this perfectly enveloping sound of contentment. It's the most peaceful feeling to fall asleep to that sort of noise, and it reminds me just how wonderful sleep is--because cats (and boys) are one of the fore-most experts on sleep and taking advantage of sunny Saturday mornings via a long slumber.

You can hear his tiny breath as he sleeps, and it's just nice to know another heart is beating close to your own. I used to sneak down into my little brother, Grant's, room and lay next to him when I couldn't sleep. Eventually, our quiet breaths would synchronize, and it made me feel at peace--like even though I knew things wouldn't turn out ok, at least they were perfect in that moment.

A moment. That's what a kitten does, it helps you capture a moment, and bask in that moment like one would in the sun on a summer afternoon.

And when I don't have a leisurely summer afternoon or Saturday morning, my kitten makes waking up in the brisk January before-the-sun-is-up hours not quiet so bad. I wake up. And yawn. And stretch. And I look over next to me as my little black kitten is doing the same thing. And as he stretches his paws high and then his back the way that cats have just the knack for, it makes me feel better knowing that he's waking up early with me too.

I'm not alone. He waits outside my door while I shower and brush my teeth, he plays with the ties and ribbons in my closet while I peruse my outfit choices, and he trails behind me as I fix my breakfast. When I come home, he's there. When I'm reading in bed, he's tucked up against me. Wherever I am, if ever I need him. He is there.

Which is a wonderful concept to be reminded of.

And to top it off, he's all black. Solid. And I love every inch of his stereotyped jinx-y self. Besides that, he looks like a panther (a miniature one of course) that an Egyptian queen might own just because that's just the sort of thing an Egyptian queen might do.

And so I never did have to live by myself. But more than that, my kitten reminds me of lackadaisical days, of playful dreaming, and of loving dearly. And he reminds me that this house I'm living in is actually mine, just like he is actually mine--mine to love, to take care of, and to grow up with. The best part about him though is that he was picked out by Jk, and the little kitten is doing all the things Jk would be doing if he was here with me too.

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