On cool nap days, Pinky lies bundled up and tucked in. Her back is to me. I poke her in the hip and say, “Come on, gimme a leg,” and she does. She sticks out a leg for me to hold.
And on another cool day, my one exposed hand was cold and I nudged her with it and said playfully, “Get this one under, too, please.” Before I knew it, she had swept that hand into her warm, furry haven.
Sometimes I awake to a sensation of a light touch across my face. It is Pinky, her back to me, as her tail sweeps back and forth.
I like to slide my feet under the blanket, under her, and bounce, hard, while singing, from South Pacific, “Talk about the moon, talk about the stars.” She hangs tight, her tail whipping about for balance.
One time at night she placed all four paws in my hand. I thought muzzily about this. Between dreams I mused about this cat who came into my life.
Why did she come to my door and look inside if she didn’t know me and was scared of me? Why follow me for days and days until that turning point when she spoke her piece?
Why did Loaner come inside and, without having been courted, show me such sweetness?