Lap Cat Quotes

Holding this soft, small living creature in my lap this way, though, and seeing how it slept with complete trust in me, I felt a warm rush in my chest. I put my hand on the cat's chest and felt his heart beating. The pulse was faint and fast, but his heart, like mine, was ticking off the time allotted to his small body with all the restless earnestness of my own.

Magnus's eyes went back to Alec. They were gold-green, as unreadable as the eyes of the cat he held on his lap. "Not my favorite topic, Smedley." "Simon", said Simon. "If I'm going to die for you all, the least you could do is remember my name.

Birchfall lapped at his wound "You're not very sympathetic for a medicine cat" "I'm here to HEAL you. If you want sympathy, go to the nursery" Jaypaw mewed

She sat one of the fluffy cats in my lap and stuffed the other down my shirt. She turned and left. 'There,' said the large man. 'The kittens will make your sad go away.

Life Lesson 3: You can't rush grief. It has its own timetable. All you can do is make sure there are lots of soft places around -- beds, pillows, arms, laps.

Cats are the lap-dancers of the animal world. Soon as you stop shelling out, they move on, find another lap. They're furry little sociopaths. Pretty and slick -- in love with themselves. When's the last time you saw a seeing-eye cat?

In life, people tend to wait for good things to come to them. And by waiting, they miss out. Usually, what you wish for doesn't fall in your lap; it falls somewhere nearby, and you have to recognize it, stand up, and put in the time and work it takes to get to it. This isn't because the universe is cruel. It's because the universe is smart. It has its own cat-string theory and knows we don't appreciate things that fall into our laps.

A girl nearby muttered,"If that's a lady, I'm a cat." Reaching out, Sandry lifted the pitcher of milk from the table. Cradling it in both hands, she walked over to the mutterer. I am Sandrilene fa Toren, daughter of Count Mattin fer Toren and his countess, Amiliane fa Landreg. I am the great-niece of his grace, Duke Vedris of this realm of Emelan, and cousin of her Imperial Highness, Empress Berenene of the Namorn Empire. You are Esmelle ei Pragin, daughter of Baron Witten en Pragin and his lady Colledia of House Wheelwright, a merchant house. If I tell you my friend is a lady, then you"- carefully she poured milk into Esmelle's plate-"you had best start lapping, kitty." She set the pitcher down and returned to her chair.

And what are you doing with a bloody cat, Charles? Some sort of mascot four our dear Reaper here?" "Not another word," Spade snapped, getting into the car and seating the carrier on his lap. "Ian, trust me--don't," Crispin said

A cat purring on your lap while you sip hot tea, is there anything better? Oh, and you’re floating in a zero gravity environment.

She sat down on one of her grandmother's uncomfortable armchairs, and the cat sprang up into her lap and made itself comfortable. The light that came through the picture window was daylight, real golden late-afternoon daylight, not a white mist light. The sky was a robin's-egg blue, and Coraline could see trees and, beyond the trees, green hills, which faded on the horizon into purples and grays. The sky had never seemed so sky, the world had never seemed so world ... Nothing, she thought, had ever been so interesting.

The man walked past me and stopped, observing the blood running down my neck. "Your injury. Let us tend to it." He looked out through the open doorway and silently gestured to someone out there. "Our world," he said, "is far more advanced than yours. For reasons you'll understand shortly." A thin, bony, naked woman entered the room, carrying two small, white kittens. She sat one of the fluffy cats in my lap and stuffed the other down my shirt. She turned and left. "There," said the large man. "The kittens will make your sad go away.

If I knew everything, life would be lonely, as everyone else would want to explore the world, and I’d be content with a cat on my lap sitting in the dark. 


In India, I was living in a little hut, about six feet by seven feet. It had a canvas flap instead of a door. I was sitting on my bed meditating, and a cat wandered in and plopped down on my lap. I took the cat and tossed it out the door. Ten seconds later it was back on my lap. We got into a sort of dance, this cat and I...I tossed it out because I was trying to meditate, to get enlightened. But the cat kept returning. I was getting more and more irritated, more and more annoyed with the persistence of the cat. Finally, after about a half-hour of this coming in and tossing out, I had to surrender. There was nothing else to do. There was no way to block off the door. I sat there, the cat came back in, and it got on my lap. But I did not do anything. I just let go. Thirty seconds later the cat got up and walked out. So, you see, our teachers come in many forms.

Cats, I always think, only jump into your lap to check if you are cold enough, yet, to eat.

Oh yes. Blood is everything. But the only blood I'm interested in flows from my enemies. Look around you! These cats are bathed in blood. It soaks their fur and laps at their paws. This is the way we survive! We are BloodClan!

I hated cats. I was a dog lover," Des says with a shrug. "What's the point of a cat? They're not affectionate. But that's because it's not my cat. I mean, your wife wouldn't jump on my lap. That's because she's your wife, not mine. Until you have your own cat, you really don't understand.

I’m at a point in my life where I feel like I can’t go anywhere. Maybe I’ll try to coax my cat off my lap so I can get up and move.

If a dog jumps in your lap, it is because he is fond of you; but if a cat does the same thing, it is because your lap is warmer.

Sekhmet crawled onto Ramses's lap and began to purr. 'The creature oozes like a furry slug,' said Ramses, eyeing it without favor.

Happiness is like a cat. If you try to coax it or call it, it will avoid you. It will never come. But if you pay no attention to it and go about your business, you'll find it rubbing up against your legs and jumping into your lap.

And that was how I ended up with the Gentle Lord in my bed, his head resting in my lap. He looked even younger when he slept— and since his eyes were closed, he looked human. I stroked his hair lightly; it was soft and silky as the fur of our old cat Penelope, and I wondered if he ever purred.

A cat can make you feel well rested when you're tired or turn a rage into a calm just by sitting on your lap. His very nearness is a healing song.

Far away, I could hear them lapping up my brains. Like Macbeth's witches, the three lithe cats surrounded my broken head, slurping up that thick soup inside. The tips of their rough tongues licked the soft folds of my mind. And with each lick my consciousness flickered like a flame and faded away.

Ian waited outside the airport in the arrivals lane after they collected their bags. He looked at them and his brows rose. “Where’s Denise? And what are you doing with a bloody cat, Charles? Some sort of mascot for our dear Reaper here?” “Not another word,” Spade snapped, getting into the car and seating the carrier on his lap. “Ian, trust me—don’t,” Crispin said before he threw their bags into the boot.

I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel, she said. I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.

Do you have a cat and is she sitting on your lap? Does her forehead smell like cedar trees and fresh sweet air?

Of the not very many ways known of shedding one's body, falling, falling, falling is the supreme method, but you have to select your sill or ledge very carefully so as not to hurt yourself or others. Jumping from a high bridge is not recommended even if you cannot swim, for wind and water abound in weird contingencies, and tragedy ought not to culminate in a record dive or a policeman's promotion. If you rent a cell in the luminous waffle, room 1915 or 1959, in a tall business centre hotel browing the star dust, and pull up the window, and gently - not fall, not jump - but roll out as you should for air comfort, there is always the chance of knocking clean through into your own hell a pacific noctambulator walking his dog; in this respect a back room might be safer, especially if giving on the roof of an old tenacious normal house far below where a cat may be trusted to flash out of the way. Another popular take-off is a mountaintop with a sheer drop of say 500 meters but you must find it, because you will be surprised how easy it is to miscalculate your deflection offset, and have some hidden projection, some fool of a crag, rush forth to catch you, causing you to bounce off it into the brush, thwarted, mangled and unnecessarily alive. The ideal drop is from an aircraft, your muscles relaxed, your pilot puzzled, your packed parachute shuffled off, cast off, shrugged off - farewell, shootka (little chute)! Down you go, but all the while you feel suspended and buoyed as you somersault in slow motion like a somnolent tumbler pigeon, and sprawl supine on the eiderdown of the air, or lazily turn to embrace your pillow, enjoying every last instant of soft, deep, death-padded life, with the earth's green seesaw now above, now below, and the voluptuous crucifixion, as you stretch yourself in the growing rush, in the nearing swish, and then your loved body's obliteration in the Lap of the Lord.

Every cat knows how to keep his owner feeding them: You may scratch and bite ninety-nine times, but the hundredth time, you must leap into a lap and press your nose to their nose. Rules are for dogs.

Slowly, I reached over and poked his arm. It felt like real flesh, warm and hard. Disappointed, I poked him again. I was expecting something amazing—celestial—by touching him. Instead all I got were weird looks from everyone in the room, including Apollo. “Please stop touching me,” Apollo said. I jabbed his arm again. “Sorry. It’s just that you’re real. I mean, I just thought you guys weren’t really around here.” “Alex.” Aiden sat on the edge of the bed. “You should probably stop touching him.” “Whatever.” I dropped my hand into my lap. I still wanted to touch him, though, which was really weird. I kind of wanted to rub all over him like a cat or something… and that was more than weird, and a little uncomfortable.

Sometimes I like her calm, unwild, gentle as a sleeping child, and wonder as she lies, a fur ring, curled upon my lap, unstirring -- is it me or Tibbles purring?

Some of them stole off to those cryptical realms which are known only to cats and which villagers say are on the moon's dark side, whither the cats leap from tall housetops; but one small black kitten crept upstairs and sprang in Carter's lap to purr and play, and curled up near his feet when he lay down at last on the little couch whose pillows were stuffed with fragrant drowsy herbs.

The night following the reading, Gansey woke up to a completely unfamiliar sound and fumbled for his glasses. It sounded a little like one of his roommates was being killed by a possum, or possibly the final moments of a fatal cat fight. He wasn’t certain of the specifics, but he was sure death was involved. Noah stood in the doorway to his room, his face pathetic and long-suffering. “Make it stop,” he said. Ronan’s room was sacred, and yet here Gansey was, twice in the same weak, pushing the door open. He found the lamp on and Ronan hunched on the bed, wearing only boxers. Six months before, Ronan had gotten the intricate black tattoo that covered most of his back and snaked up his neck, and now the monochromatic lines of it were stark in the claustrophobic lamplight, more real than anything else in the room. It was a peculiar tattoo, both vicious and lovely, and every time Gansey saw it, he saw something different in the pattern. Tonight, nestled in an inked glen of wicked, beautiful flowers, was a beak where before he’d seen a scythe. The ragged sound cut through the apartment again. “What fresh hell is this?” Gansey asked pleasantly. Ronan was wearing headphones as usual, so Gansey stretched forward far enough to tug them down around his neck. Music wailed faintly into the air. Ronan lifted his head. As he did, the wicked flowers on his back shifted and hid behind his sharp shoulder blades. In his lap was the half-formed raven, its head tilted back, beak agape. “I thought we were clear on what a closed door meant,” Ronan said. He held a pair of tweezers in one hand. “I thought we were clear that night was for sleeping.” Ronan shrugged. “Perhaps for you.” “Not tonight. Your pterodactyl woke me. Why is it making that sound?” In response, Ronan dipped the tweezers into a plastic baggy on the blanket in front of him. Gansey wasn’t certain he wanted to know what the gray substance was in the tweezers’ grasp. As soon as the raven heard the rustle of the bag, it made the ghastly sound again—a rasping squeal that became a gurgle as it slurped down the offering. At once, it inspired both Gansey’s compassion and his gag reflex. “Well, this is not going to do,” he said. “You’re going to have to make it stop.” “She has to be fed,” Ronan replied. The ravel gargled down another bite. This time it sounded a lot like vacuuming potato salad. “It’s only every two hours for the first six weeks.” “Can’t you keep her downstairs?” In reply, Ronan half-lifted the little bird toward him. “You tell me.

Here you complain about your boring life, yet when a talking cat drops into your lap, you seek to silence it!

Spilling a Secret What its size, will have varying consequences. It’s not possible to predict what will happen if you open the gunnysack, let the cat escape. A liberated feline might purr on your lap, or it might scratch your eyes out. You can’t tell until you loosen the knot. Do you chance losing a friendship, if that friend’s well-being will only be preserved by betraying sworn-to silence trust? Once the seam is ripped, can it be mended again? And if that proves impossible, will you be okay when it all falls to pieces?

Sometimes I had the feeling that all of us in his family were like pets to him. The dog you take for a walk, the cat you play with and that curls up in your lap, purring, to be stroked - you can be fond of them, you can even need them to a certain extent, and nonetheless the whole thing - buying pet food, cleaning up the cat box, and trips to the vet - is really too much. Your life is elsewhere.

It's not that I think that computers don't have their place, but surely their place is not in bed, which is my favorite place to read, and surely their place is not snuggled up with a cat in your lap in an old armchair. You can't have your laptop computer and your cat in your lap simultaneously, while trying to manage a cup of tea, which you might spill on your computer. On the other hand, if you spilled your cup of tea on your book -- well, Charles Lamb would probably just like it better. He once said that he particularly liked books that had old muffin crumbs in them. Muffin crumbs in your computer would not be a good idea.

And yet looking at Rook I imagined a cat proudly bringing its master dead chipmunks, only to watch the two-legged oaf lift these priceless gifts by the tail and fling them unceremoniously into the bushes. Before I knew it I'd dissolved into laughter. Rook shifted, torn between uneasiness and anger. "What?" he demanded. I sank to my knees, the hare on my lap, gulping in air. "Stop that." Rook looked around, as if concerned someone might witness him mismanaging his human.

I want to pull my hair back high and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel," she said. "I want to have a kitty sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.

Jace had disappeared under the table. He appeared a moment later, holding Church, the Institute's part-time cat. Church had his paws stuck straight out and a look of satisfaction on his face. "We thought the same thing," said Jace, settling the cat on his lap. "But apparently, according to Magnus, there are spells that can be constructed to be activated by a warlock's death." Emma glared at Church. She knew the cat had once lived in the New York Institute, but it seemed rude to show preference so blatantly. The cat was lying on his back on Jace's lap, purring and ignoring her.

Your mother rolls her eyes at the cat lapping grapefruit juice, says, "Everything that comes into this house is crazy - whether we choose them for that or they get that way, I don't know.

The witch grunted. "Love gone wrong. The worst." Jace made a soft, almost inaudible noise at that—a chuckle. Dorothea's ears pricked like a cat's. "What's so funny, boy?" "What would you know about it?" he said. "Love, I mean." Dorothea folded her soft white hands in her lap. "More than you might think," she said. "Didn't I read your tea leaves, Shadowhunter? Have you fallen in love with the wrong person yet?" Jace said, "Unfortunately, Lady of the Haven, my one true love remains myself." Dorothea roared at that. "At least," she said, "you don't have to worry about rejection, Jace Wayland." "Not necessarily. I turn myself down occasionally, just to keep it interesting.

Lee’s hand shook as he filled the delicate cups. He drank his down in one gulp. “Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’—that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?” “Yes, I see. I do see. But you do not believe this is divine law. Why do you feel its importance?” “Ah!” said Lee. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time. I even anticipated your questions and I am well prepared. Any writing which has influenced the thinking and the lives of innumerable people is important. Now, there are many millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But “Thou mayest’! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.” Lee’s voice was a chant of triumph. Adam said, “Do you believe that, Lee?” “Yes, I do. Yes, I do. It is easy out of laziness, out of weakness, to throw oneself into the lap of deity, saying, ‘I couldn’t help it; the way was set.’ But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There’s no godliness there. And do you know, those old gentlemen who were sliding gently down to death are too interested to die now?” Adam said, “Do you mean these Chinese men believe the Old Testament?” Lee said, “These old men believe a true story, and they know a true story when they hear it. They are critics of truth. They know that these sixteen verses are a history of humankind in any age or culture or race. They do not believe a man writes fifteen and three-quarter verses of truth and tells a lie with one verb. Confucius tells men how they should live to have good and successful lives. But this—this is a ladder to climb to the stars.” Lee’s eyes shone. “You can never lose that. It cuts the feet from under weakness and cowardliness and laziness.” Adam said, “I don’t see how you could cook and raise the boys and take care of me and still do all this.” “Neither do I,” said Lee. “But I take my two pipes in the afternoon, no more and no less, like the elders. And I feel that I am a man. And I feel that a man is a very important thing—maybe more important than a star. This is not theology. I have no bent toward gods. But I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed—because ‘Thou mayest.

Last week I placed a hand-written sign in front of my neighborhood that read, “Lost Mustache. Please do not feed. If found, contact Mouth,” and I left my phone number. Nobody’s called. Perhaps the neighborhood cat lady took it in and is petting it on her lap at this very moment. Ah, but that’s life, no?


It is easy out of laziness, out of weakness, to throw oneself into the lap of deity, saying, ‘I couldn’t help it; the way was set.’ But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There’s no godliness there.

These days, though, he was as unpredictable as an alley cat. One minute, he’s purring on your lap. The next, he’s scowling at you from the window sill, and you’re left wondering if he’s plotting your demise over there, just waiting for you to fall asleep. That’s Will.

I kinda feel like a Bond villain. I just need a cat sitting in my lap. I could scratch their ears while I chuckle at the fact that a superhero just fell into a damn pit trap.

Come sit on my lap, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.

Emotional issues, more like, ' Jeb said. 'You know women. Stray cats, all of them, either purring in your lap or pissing in your shoes.

Cats like milk. Have you ever seen how cats lap it up? In real tiny sips, very neat and tidy, never spilling a drop. Cats will do just about anything to irritate.

Often, when I have been feeling lonely, when a book as been thrust aside in boredom [...] I have lain back and stared at the shadows on the ceiling, wondering what life is all about [...] and then, suddenly, there is the echo of the swinging door, and across the carpet, walking with the utmost delicacy and precision, stalks Four or Five or Oscar. He sits down on the floor beside me, regarding my long legs, my old jumper, and my floppy arms, with a purely practical interest. Which part of this large male body will form the most appropriate lap? Usually he settles for the chest. Whereupon he springs up and there is a feeling of cold fur [...] and the tip of an icy nose, thrust against my wrist and a positive tattoo of purrs. And I no longer wonder what life is all about.

Rob opened the door, and a tiny kitten ran out. It stopped to sniff Rob‟s ankle and arched its back, spitting tiny kitty defiance at him. Rob scooped it up. The tiny black bundle barely filled his palm. Dark as ink, the only mark on it was a tiny white spot between its eyes. Rob looked up from the kitten to meet Jamie‟s wide-eyed attempt at innocence. "There was a cat in my closet." "I can explain," Jamie offered. Rob returned to the bed. He dropped the kitten in Jamie‟s lap, causing it to poke unfortunate things with tiny needle claws. "Damn!" Jamie yelped, grabbing the kitten and putting a sheet between his delicate parts and danger. "I took out the trash yesterday, and there she was almost buried in a snow bank shivering." "It was ninety degrees yesterday, and there is no snow." Rob sat down on the edge of the bed. "Aren‟t you supposed to hate cats?" Jamie cuddled the tiny creature in his hands. It wrestled with his fingers. "That‟s dogs. I‟m not a dog, I‟m a wolf. There might not have been a snow bank, but it was dirty and hungry and very sad.

When she sat on the couch I jumped up to be with her and I put my head in her lap. I could feel some of the tension and sadness leave her. I was giving Mom comfort. This was more important than going for walks, more important than helping feed the cats—it was the most important job I had. I knew I should sit with Mom for as long as she needed me.

To Eden with me you will not leave To live in a cottage of crazy, crooked eaves. In your own happy home you take care these nights; When you let your little cat in, please turn on the lights! Something scurries behind and finds a cozy place to stare, Something sent to you from paradise, with serpents to spare: Tongues flowering; they leap out laughing, lapping. Dissapear

You know what, Carl? I’ve decided something,” Donut said, finally speaking. She released Mongo, who squawked and started investigating this strange, new world. “Yeah, Donut?” “I think they’re right about you. I think you’re crazy. Like, not a little weird crazy. Not guy who eats cereal without milk crazy. But crazy, crazy. Straitjacket crazy.” I took the cat into my lap, and then I pulled her to my chest. She purred heavily into my ear.

Money is like a mischievous cat; if you chase it around the neighborhood, it eludes you. It hides up a tree, behind the rose bush, or in the garden. However, if you ignore it and focus on what attracts the cat, it comes to you and sits in your lap.

So–in short–color is consciousness itself, color is feeling, and shape is the distance color goes securely, as in our life we extend ourselves through neighborhoods and hunting grounds; while form in its turn is the relation of these inhabited spaces, in or out or up or down, and thrives on the difference between kitchen and pantry. This difference, with all its sameness, is yet another quality, alive in time like the stickiness of honey or the gently rough lap of a cat, for color is connection.

I think I’m getting a notion of how to do this. O.K., a carnival works because people pay to feel amazed and scared. They can nibble around a midway getting amazed here and scared there, or both. And do you know what else? Hope. Hope they’ll win a prize, break the jackpot, meet a girl, hit a bull’s-eye in front of their buddies. In a carnival you call it luck or chance, but it’s the same as hope. Now hope is a good feeling that needs risk to work. How good it is depends on how big the risk is if what you hope doesn’t happen. You hope your old auntie croaks and leaves you a carload of shekels, but she might leave them to her cat. You might not hit the target or win the stuffed dog, you might lose your money and look like a fool. You don’t get the surge without the risk. Well. Religion works the same way. The only difference is that it’s more amazing than even Chick or the twins. And it’s a whole lot scarier than the Roll-a-plane or the Screamer, or any simp twister. This scare stuff laps over into the hope department too. The hope you get from religion is a three-ring, all-star hope because the risk is outrageous. Bad! Well, I’m working on it. I’ve got the amazing part down. And the scary bits are a snap. But I’ve got to come up with a hope.

She hops expectantly into the sink. I turn on the tap for her; she laps without a glance in my direction, like a duchess so used to being ministered to that she no longer notices the servants and sees only a world where objects dumbly bend to her wishes, doors opening, faucets discharging cool water, delicious things appearing in her dish.

Keep an eye out for her, she tends to disappear intermittently, leaving no note for one to know, as to where she is going and if she'll be showing up for supper that day, or in the dark, wander away. But soon she will map her way back to your lap timidly, in need for a warm, caring body to conform. She likes to play with things, but often her mood swings. To hurt is not her intention, all she wants is your attention, and if you give your love to her, she’ll not smile but perhaps purr.

Your injury. Let us tend to it.” He looked out through the open doorway and silently gestured to someone out there. “Our world,” he said, “is far more advanced than yours. For reasons you’ll understand shortly.” A thin, bony naked woman entered the room, carrying two small, white kittens. She sat one of the fluffy cats in my lap and stuffed the other down my shirt. She turned and left. “There,” said the large man. “The kittens will make your sad go away.

When I came into his presence, he was seated, and in his lap was a fat yellow cat. He told me that one of the captains had brought the beast to him, from an island beyond the sunrise. 'Have you ever seen her like?' he asked of me. And to him I said, 'Each night in the alleys of Braavos I see a thousand like him,' and the Sealord laughed, and that day I was named the first sword." Arya screwed up her face. "I don't understand." Syrio clicked his teeth together. "The cat was an ordinary cat, no more. The others expected a fabulous beast, so that is what they saw. How large it was, they said. It was no larger than any other cat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. What curious small ears, they said. Its ears had been chewed away in kitten fights. And it was plainly a tomcat, yet the Sealord said 'her', and that is what the others saw. Are you hearing?" Arya thought about it. "You saw what was there." "Just so. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. the heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth." "Just so," said Arya, grinning.

Our world,” he said, “is far more advanced than yours. For reasons you’ll understand shortly.” A thin, bony naked woman entered the room, carrying two small, white kittens. She sat one of the fluffy cats in my lap and stuffed the other down my shirt. She turned and left. “There,” said the large man. “The kittens will make your sad go away.

O, girls! set your affections on cats, poodles, parrots or lap-dogs; but let matrimony alone. It's the hardest way on earth to getting a living.

It was the kind of light that rests on your shoulders the way a cat lies on your lap. So familiar.

If I could crawl right into his lap and have him pet me like a fucking cat, I would. I’d purr for him.

It is to heal the body, soothe the mind, and give joy to the heart, Because it is your beloved’s lap that you are sitting on.

Cats are magicians. They can make my erections disappear. All they have to do is jump in my lap while I’m masturbating. Damn! This is the second time today I’ve had to pause Golden Girls!

Curiosity killed the cat.” He smiled over the rim of the glass. “Satisfaction brought it back.” She snuck her hand into his lap, her own smile quite lascivious. “Let’s get to work on that, shall we?

Percy was struck by a flight of fancy, imagining Arsenic in his lap, with Footnote on top of both of them. A tangle of limbs and books and cat and comfort. He was startled by the depth of his own yearning.

Dogs don’t know what they look like. Dogs don’t even know what size they are. No doubt it’s our fault, for breeding them into such weird shapes and sizes. My brother’s dachshund, standing tall at eight inches, would attack a Great Dane in the full conviction that she could tear it apart. When a little dog is assaulting its ankles the big dog often stands there looking confused — “Should I eat it? Will it eat me? I am bigger than it, aren’t I?” But then the Great Dane will come and try to sit in your lap and mash you flat, under the impression that it is a Peke-a-poo… Cats know exactly where they begin and end. When they walk slowly out the door that you are holding open for them, and pause, leaving their tail just an inch or two inside the door, they know it. They know you have to keep holding the door open. That is why their tail is there. It is a cat’s way of maintaining a relationship. Housecats know that they are small, and that it matters. When a cat meets a threatening dog and can’t make either a horizontal or a vertical escape, it’ll suddenly triple its size, inflating itself into a sort of weird fur blowfish, and it may work, because the dog gets confused again — “I thought that was a cat. Aren’t I bigger than cats? Will it eat me?” … A lot of us humans are like dogs: we really don’t know what size we are, how we’re shaped, what we look like. The most extreme example of this ignorance must be the people who design the seats on airplanes. At the other extreme, the people who have the most accurate, vivid sense of their own appearance may be dancers. What dancers look like is, after all, what they do.” — Ursula Le Guin, in The Wave in the Mind (via fortooate)

It was as easy for him to quit Bloomsbury for the Chilterns as for a cat to jump from a hard chair to a soft. Now after a little scrabbling and exploration he was curled up in the green lap and purring over the landscape.

But then: a pink nose tiny black paws and blinking sleepy eyes a small black fur ball not a BIG fat fur ball a kitten stumbling out of a basket and wobbling over to me and crawling up on my lap and licking my pajamas and I forgot that I hate cats as it crawled up onto my chest and purrrrrred and I was smiiiiiling all over the place.

I could teach someone how to ride a motorcycle, but I couldn't teach them to do a lap of Kyalami in one minute, forty-nine seconds. You have to learn that for yourself, and the only way to learn how to go fast is to take it slow.

When he heard people with no knowledge of a cat's character saying that cats were not as loving as dogs, that they were cold and selfish, he always thought to himself how impossible it was to understand the charm and lovableness of a cat if one had not, like him, spent many years living alone with one. The reason was that all cats are to some extent shy creatures: they won't show affection or seek it from their owners in front of a third person but tend rather to be oddly standoffish. Lily too would ignore Shozo or run off when he called her, if his mother were present. But when the two of them were alone, she would climb up on his lap without being called and devote the most flattering attention to him.

History is a funny little creature. Do you remember visiting your old Aunt that autumn when the trees shone so very yellow, and how she owned a striped and unsocial cat, quite old and fat and wounded about the ears and whiskers, with a crooked, broken tail? That cat would not come to you no matter how you coaxed and called; it had its own business, thank you, and no time for you. But as the evening wore on, it would come and show some affection or favor to your Aunt, or your Father, or the old end-table with the stack of green coasters on it. You couldn’t predict who that cat might decide to love, or who it might decide to bite. You couldn’t tell what it thought or felt, or how old it might really be, or whether it would one day, miraculously, decide to let you put one hand, very briefly, on its dusty head. History is like that. Of course, unlike your Aunt’s cat, history is going on all around you, all the time, and is often quite lively. Sometimes it rests in a sunbeam for a peaceful century or two, but on the whole, history is always plotting, and it bites very hard. It stalks around the world, fickle and dissatisfied and often angry. It demands to be fed just a little earlier each day, until you find yourself carving meat from the bone as fast as you can, faster than you thought possible, just to satisfy it. Some people have a kind of marvelous talent for calming it and enticing it onto their laps. To some it will never even spare a glance.

Discovering a note in the mending basket, Phoebe plucked it out and unfolded it. She instantly recognized West's handwriting. Unemployed Feline Seeking Household Position To Whom It May Concern, I hereby offer my services as an experienced mouser and personal companion. References from a reputable family to be provided upon request. Willing to accept room and board in lieu of pay. Indoor lodgings preferred. Your servant, Galoshes the Cat Glancing up from the note, Phoebe found her parents' questioning gazes on her. "Job application," she explained sourly. "From the cat." "How charming," Seraphina exclaimed, reading over her shoulder. "'Personal companion,' my foot," Phoebe muttered. "This is a semi-feral animal who has lived in outbuildings and fed on vermin." "I wonder," Seraphina said thoughtfully. "If she were truly feral, she wouldn't want any contact with humans. With time and patience, she might become domesticated." Phoebe rolled her eyes. "It seems we'll find out." The boys returned from the dining car with a bowl of water and a tray of refreshments. Galoshes descended to the floor long enough to devour a boiled egg, an anchovy canapé, and a spoonful of black caviar from a silver dish on ice. Licking her lips and purring, the cat jumped back into Phoebe's lap and curled up with a sigh. "I'd say she's adjusting quite well," Seraphina commented with a grin, and elbowed Phoebe gently. "One never knows who might rise above their disreputable past.

I love cats... I’ve never had one myself, but they’ve always fascinated me. They’re these perfect little predators, yet we let them curl up on our laps like they wouldn’t eat our faces if we died in the night. Hmm, that got morbid. They’re also really soft, and I hear that sometimes they let you pet their bellies. I like that.

There were twenty-three females on the Keltar estate--not counting Gwen, Chloe, herself, or the cat--Gabby knew, because shortly after Adam had become visible last night, she'd met each and every one, from tiniest tot to tottering ancient. It had begun with a plump, thirtyish maid popping in to pull the drapes for the evening and inquire if the MacKeltars "were wishing aught else?" The moment her bespectacled gaze had fallen on Adam, she'd begun stammering and tripping over her own feet. It had taken her a few moments to regain a semblance of coordination, but she'd managed to stumble from the library, nearly upsetting a lamp and a small end table in her haste. Apparently it had been haste to alert the forces, for a veritable parade had ensued: a blushing curvaceous maid had come offering a warm-up of tear (they'd not been having any), followed by a giggling maid seeking a forgotten dust cloth (which--was anyone surprised?--was nowhere to be found), then a third one looking for a waylaid broom (yeah, right--they swept castles at midnight in Scotland--who believed that?), then a fourth, fifth, and sixth inquiring if the Crystal Chamber would do for Mr. Black (no one seemed to care what chamber might do for her; she half-expected to end up in an outbuilding somewhere). A seventh, eighth, and ninth had come to announce that his chamber was ready would he like an escort? A bath drawn? Help undressing? (Well, okay, maybe they hadn't actually asked the last, but their eyes certainly had.) Then a half-dozen more had popped in at varying intervals to say the same things over again, and to stress that they were there to provide "aught, aught at all Mr. Black might desire." The sixteenth had come to extract two tiny girls from Adam's lap over their wailing protests (and had stayed out of his lap herself only because Adam had hastily stood), the twenty-third and final one had been old enough to be someone's great-great-grandmother, and even she'd flirted shamelessly with the "braw Mr. Black," batting nonexistent lashes above nests of wrinkles, smoothing thin white hair with a blue-veined, age-spotted hand. And if that hadn't been enough, the castle cat, obviously female and obviously in heat, had sashayed in, tail straight up and perkily curved at the tip, and would her furry little self sinuously around Adam's ankles, purring herself into a state of drooling, slanty-eyed bliss. Mr. Black, my ass, she'd wanted to snap (and she liked cats, really she did; she'd certainly never wanted to kick one before, but please--even cats?), he's a fairy and I found him, so that him my fairy. Back off.

On the wicker chair the cat lazily raised its head. Meeting my gaze, it got up, padded across the floor and jumped onto my lap. I got rid of the orange peel, which the cat hated. “You can lie here for a bit,” I said, stroking it. “You can. But not all night, you know. I’m going to bed soon.” It began to purr as it curled up on me. Its head sank slowly, resting on one paw, and its eyes, which first had closed with pleasure, were closed in sleep within seconds. “It’s all right for some,” I said.

Pretty soon three sleeping bags formed a triangle in the master bedroom. The father was the hypotenuse. The girl asked him to brush out her hair, which he did while the boy ate a tangerine, peeling it up close to his face, inhaling the mist. Then he held each segment to the light to find seeds. In his lap, cat paws fluttered like dreaming eyes. “What

Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?” “Yes, I see. I do see. But you do not believe this is divine law. Why do you feel its importance?” “Ah!” said Lee. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time. I even anticipated your questions and I am well prepared. Any writing which has influenced the thinking and the lives of innumerable people is important. Now, there are many millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.” Lee’s voice was a chant of triumph. Adam said, “Do you believe that, Lee?” “Yes, I do. Yes, I do. It is easy out of laziness, out of weakness, to throw oneself into the lap of deity, saying, ‘I couldn’t help it; the way was set.’ But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There’s no godliness there. And do you know, those old gentlemen who were sliding gently down to death are too interested to die now?

Coming up. A large tawny cat announced this to me at the same moment that he effortlessly elevated onto my lap. I stared at him in surprise.

They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk." --SHAKESPEARE: Tempest.

Ever wonder why your cat jumps on the lap of the guest that doesn't like cats? It is because people who don't like cats will do things cats like during greetings. They squint their eyes, turn their heads and avoid direct contact with the cat. The cat's view is these people are saying hello and being non-threatening, and, sure enough, he ends up on their lap.

Then, he grabs my legs and, resting them over his lap, massages my feet, all the while quoting lines from the film. The act is so thoughtless, so genuine, that tears rush to my eyes.

Maggie sipped her drink with the cat draped across her lap and the dog curled at her feet. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and Dan Sean's shallow snores. There were no CD's to play, no radio, no television. There was nothing. She was just sitting there in silence, getting drunk. It occurred to her that a person's first drunken experience shoud be in the basement of a friend's house, in a forest preserve, behind the bleachers of a football field. Certainly not in the company of a sleeping ninety-nine-year-old man. She giggled a little and wondered what Uncle Kevin would make of it. "Hot port?" he would say. "Very impressive, Mags. I would have thought you'd be more of a wine cooler type of girl.

The cat lifts its head to find out what all the commotion is about, then concludes that all this is sensationally uninteresting and snuggles back into Parvaneh’s lap. Or rather, her belly.

Marissa Theodora took out her journal, put it on her lap so Mr. Alva would not see. She penciled thoughts as they came. ‘Picture the classroom plunged into dark,’ she wrote. A touchable darkness, like the fur of a black cat. A thick fog of ink. You can move through it; just not quickly. Can’t shout through it; only talk in low soft tones.’ She frowned. Why ‘plunged into dark’? Why not ‘opened’? Darkness was already everywhere. Under the floor, between the walls. Up in space and below the earth. Everyone’s pockets were full of Dark. Our heads? Stuffed with the stuff. Close your eyelids and roll your eyes inward, and gaze into the cavern of your skull. Behold: your secret vault of Dark. Marissa considered writing that. Decided not. It sounded gloomy, even creepy.

I thought you hated them,” Nine Hibiscus said, dryly. “Was all of that complaining about ecosystem disruption for show, then?” Twenty Cicada looked up at her, and dismissed most of his work holos with the hand that wasn’t petting the small void on his knee. “I do hate them,” he said, smiling. “But this one likes me, and what am I going to do with the things, space them? It’s not their fault they exist.” She came to sit next to him, knee to knee. There always seemed to be more oxygen in one of Twenty Cicada’s garden rooms. (Not seemed: there was. Plant respiration. She’d checked the readouts once. It was a fractional difference, but real.) The Kauraanian pet lifted its head and opened yellow eyes. It made a noise like a badly tuned stringed instrument, stood, paced in a tight circle on Twenty Cicada’s lap, and settled down again. “I didn’t think you’d space them, Swarm,” she said. “But this is cuddling.” “It yowls if I don’t,” Twenty Cicada said, perfectly bland, and Nine Hibiscus laughed.

To Percy's delight, Arsenic staunchly resisted developing any possible chatterbox tendencies. Their long silences might have become uncomfortable, except for their mutual joy in quiet and the ameliorating presence of Footnote. The cat divided his time between them. He showed a marked preference for Arsenic's lap and Percy's feet, and happily basked in the attention of whichever human was most easily distracted at any given moment.

The deviation of man from the state in which he was originally placed by nature seems to have proved to him a prolific source of diseases. From the love of splendour, from the indulgences of luxury, and from his fondness for amusement he has familiarised himself with a great number of animals, which may not originally have been intended for his associates. The wolf, disarmed of ferocity, is now pillowed in the lady's lap. The cat, the little tiger of our island, whose natural home is the forest, is equally domesticated and caressed. The cow, the hog, the sheep, and the horse, are all, for a variety of purposes, brought under his care and dominion.

there’s nothing better in the world than sitting or lying down with a cat on your lap, and listening to that soft throaty noise of happiness and contentment to make you feel that life is good, no matter what else is going on.

The Madame deplored fat men. They had no laps, and of what use is a lapless human? Nevertheless, she gave him the common courtesy of a sniff at his trouser cuffs and immediately backed away, twitching her nose and showing her teeth.

Into the room, with great dignity, stalked One and Four. They had mud on their paws, and they naturally decided to sit on my lap. They smelt of moss and loam, and they both set up a slow, tranquil purr. Cats, I thought, are the best.

Jeeves was on a deck chair outside the back door, reading Spinoza with the cat Augustus on his lap. I had given him the Spinoza at Christmas and he was constantly immersed in it. I hadn’t dipped into it myself, but he tells me it is good ripe stuff, well worth perusal. He would have risen at my approach, but I begged him to remain seated, for I knew that Augustus, like L. P. Runkle, resented being woken suddenly, and one always wants to consider a cat’s feelings.

Andy rolls over and puts his feet in Nick’s lap, watching a curl of smoke drift toward the ceiling. Nick begins to unlace Andy’s shoes, muttering something about animals who wear shoes indoors. Andy can’t imagine why animals would wear shoes anywhere.

The visitor was about the same age as Hallgrimsson, but he looked older; certainly his face bore the marks of more experience and trial than did the professor’s smooth cheeks and unlined brow. He was a gyptian of the people of Eastern Anglia, a man called Coram van Texel, who had travelled much in the far north. He was lean, of middle height, and his movements were careful, as if he thought he might break something inadvertently, as if he were unused to delicate glasses and fine tableware. His dæmon, a large cat with fur of a thousand beautiful autumnal colours, stalked the corners of the study before leaping gracefully to Coram’s lap. Ten years after this evening, and again ten years after that, Lyra would marvel at the colouring of that dæmon’s fur

Burn me. Pour gasoline over me and set my body on fire. Burn me at the stake like a witch. Wrap me in garbage bags and toss me in the incinerator. I'll turn into dioxin and make my way into your lungs. Stroke my face lightly with a razor blade and suck the blood that comes seeping out. Lap it up like a cat. I want to be covered in blood. I'll cry out in the end and weep for fear of leaving this world without ever once discovering the me inside me, the ugly something inside me. The foul scent of burning hair. The heat.

It takes me a while to drag him out, he's got himself stuck to the axle, and by the time I am done and stand over the body something strange has started to happen. The alley's filled with a half-dozen cats, runty little things with their ribs showing and their tails worn high like they're pointing to the moon. I stand there, breathing froth into the snowflakes and watch them gather round me, soft kitty paws, and now and then a patrol car rolls past in the distance. The cats are circling us, tails cocked at the moon, their muzzles bloodied by the tail lights' glow. They are vicious bastards, let me tell you: frost on their whiskers, eyes like cut glass, a half-dozen pairs, on me and the dead man. And then they start licking. Licking at the snow I mean, the blood in the snow, they lap it up like mother's milk. And all the while from their throats, from their whole bodies, there issues this sound, you hear it with your skin, it's like an engine running under your palm. That's when I realize they are purring, man, purring as they feed on the midget's death.

Okay, little demon, what’s your deal?” A loud meow answers him, and he sighs begrudgingly. “Oh, hell no. Also, Mom said milk isn’t good for cats.” He tries to push her away and she falls, but then she climbs back up on his T-shirt. “I guess a bit won’t hurt.” He pours a small amount of hot chocolate into his palm and lifts it toward her. She laps it up eagerly, her tiny pink tongue darting out. For a moment, Gareth looks…soft. His shoulders relax, and he carefully strokes her head, as if testing the waters. “You won’t scratch me, right?” I smile and disappear into the bedroom, answer some texts, especially from my nephew—while I ignore my brother’s—and then I change into PJ bottoms. When I finally join him again, Gareth is lying on his back on the sofa with the kitten curled up on his chest, purring loudly.

I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to such ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. It was just as though I had been let into some conspiracy—I don’t know—something not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outer room the two women knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and the younger one was walking back and forth introducing them. The old one sat on her chair. Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot–warmer, and a cat reposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head, had a wart on one cheek, and silver–rimmed spectacles hung on the tip of her nose. She glanced at me above the glasses. The swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled me. Two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over, and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom. She seemed to know all about them and about me, too. An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful. Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes. AVE! Old knitter of black wool. MORITURI TE SALUTANT. Not many of those she looked at ever saw her again—not half, by a long way.

Make a lap. Near the fire. The assertive little voice rang in my mind. I looked down at him and he looked up at me. For an instant, our gazes brushed, then we both looked aside in instinctive courtesy. But he had already seen the ruins of my soul. He rubbed his cheek against my leg. Hold the cat. You’ll feel better. I don’t think so. He rubbed against my leg insistently. Hold the cat. I don’t want to hold the cat. He reared up suddenly on his hind legs, and hooked his vicious little front claws into both flesh and leggings. Don’t talk back! Pick up the cat.

My dear Orga is here on my lap, sleeping blissfully after I spoilt her with the best cuts of meat from the café and a great deal of cream. Rose made several withering remarks about the devilish nature of faerie cats, as well as my indulgence of her, which he seemed to think a bit maudlin, and yet I saw that old hypocrite sneak her several morsels from his dinner plate when he thought I wasn't looking. Like Shadow, she has adopted a glamour here, and presently looks every bit the part of an ordinary mortal cat, apart from her eyes, which flask like gold coins.

A Letter To Say, "I'll See You Later" I remember just like it was yesterday the grapevine, clothesline, lilacs and peonies. I remember the secret hiding place for 50-cent pieces. I remember just like it was yesterday the color wheel Christmas Tree, The Honeymooner’s, The Dukes of Hazzard and Jeopardy! I remember just like it was yesterday the house was full of children, but I was your only and your favorite. You always made time for me, even when I deserved the fly swatter. I remember just like it was yesterday falling asleep to the scent of Dove soap on your pillow, you lying for me so I wouldn’t be abused again. I remember just like it was yesterday your big “Black Cat” and the late, dark nights driving to IFP and knowing there was “No Place Like Home.” I remember just like it was yesterday the “horns” in your ‘do and the smell of Raffinee wafting through the house and Listerine in the bathroom. I remember your bows and polka dots and “just a few fries.” I remember the green blanket. I remember just like it was yesterday the way it felt to sit on your lap and have you sing “She’s Grandma’s Little Baby.” I remember just like it was yesterday the day you told me I could “Shit in the sugar bowl.” I remember just like it was yesterday telling you that you were going to be a great-grandma…for the first time. I remember just like it was yesterday the 1st time you held him in your arms; you helped me raise him. Your house was always our home. I remember just like it was yesterday having my heart broken but you helped me mend it. I remember just like it was yesterday asking for your help when I couldn’t do it on my own; you’ve always been my rock. I remember just like it was yesterday confiding my secrets to you – you were the first to know another baby was on the way, this time a girl. I remember just like it was yesterday the joy they brought to your life; they were the reason you didn’t give up. I remember just like it was yesterday saying words I never meant, not spending more time with you because my life got in the way. I remember just like it was yesterday you loving on me, your strength and vitality, your faith, hope and kindness. I remember just like it was yesterday wishing for more tomorrows so I could tell you that I love you another time. I remember just like it was yesterday having you tell me you love me, “more than anyone will ever know.” I remember just like it was yesterday you taught me to never say good-bye, just say “I’ll see you later.

One evening I came home and there on the couch I found my husband, Tom, with a freshly fledged crow sitting calmly in his lap. They were busy watching Star Trek: The Next Generation; since Captain Jean-Luc Picard was in the middle of an absorbing monologue, they hardly registered my arrival, but finally they both glanced my way, Tom looking a bit sheepish, the crow nibbling bits from a can of gourmet cat food. I thought of something Bernd Heinrich wrote, inspired by his raven studies, "Living with another creature, you naturally feel closer to it the more activities that can be shared, especially important activities like watching TV.

Coraline stared at the leaves on the trees and at the patterns of light and shadow on the cracked bark of the trunk of the beech tree outside the window. Then she looked down at her lap, at the way that the rich sunlight brushed every hair on the cat's head, turning each white whisker to gold. Nothing, she thought, had ever been so interesting.

Coraline stared at the leaves no the trees and at the patterns of light and shadow on the cracked bark of the trunk of the beech tree outside the window. Then she looked down at her lap, at the way that the rich sunlight brushed every hair on the cat's head, turning each white whisker to gold. Nothing, she thought, had ever been so interesting.

Rose believed in cats-in feeding them and cuddling them. She did not find cats a nuisance in the least. She found them soft, quiet, gentle, and for the most part accepting. She loved the feeling when a cat plopped in her lap. She often wondered how they could be so comforting without ever saying a word. How they could seem to listen, to understand.

You wonder about me. I wonder about you. Who are you and what are you doing? Are you in a New York subway car hanging from a strap, or soaking in your hot tub in Sunnyvale? Are you sunbathing on a sandy beach in Phuket, or having your toenails buffed in Brighton? Are you a male or a female or somewhat in between? Is your girlfriend cooking you a yummy dinner, or are you eating cold Chinese noodles from a box? Are you curled up with your back turned coldly toward your snoring wife, or are you eagerly waiting for your beautiful lover to finish his bath so you can make passionate love to him? Do you have a cat and is she sitting on your lap? Does her forehead smell like cedar trees and fresh sweet air?

Tina Gardenia was as happy as a cat with a full belly. She had kept Luca Lowell’s heart safely on her charm bracelet, and it had been wonderful. It was Sunday morning again, and Luca was clunking around in the tiny kitchen on one bare foot and one walking cast, making coffee by the smell of it. Tina snuggled Muffins close to her face. “You’re a handsome boy,” she cooed. “I know you’re talking to the cat,” Luca said. “Why don’t you talk to me like that?” “You already get more than enough compliments, Mr. Lowell.” “How many dunks do I dunk your tea bags?” “You don’t dunk. Just pour the water on and let it steep.” “How’s it going to steep if you’re not dunking?” “Fine,” she said. “Give it... seven dunks.” “Gotcha. Seven dunks.” He started counting them out. Tina nuzzled the ginger cat sprawled out on the couch. “You’re the prettiest boy in the world,” she said. Luca growled, “I heard that.” “Focus on your dunking.” “Darn it. I lost count.” “That’ll teach you for listening in on other people’s private conversations.” Luca snorted and went back to dunking. For the last two weeks, Muffins had been coming to visit at the tiny house regularly, and Luca had been pretending to be a jealous boyfriend. He and the cat were bonding on their own, though, often snuggling up on the couch together, watching their favorite shows. Luca liked true crime shows, and Muffins liked a warm lap and chin scratches.

remembered the gray cat that had appeared, as if by magic, on her lap. Silently he had sat under her stroking hand, regarding me fixedly with his round yellow eyes. If he saw my ghosts, if he saw my secrets, he did not seem the least perturbed, but only blinked and continued to stare indifferently. “What’s his name?” I had asked. “Shadow,” she absently replied.

Just as we would be inestimably poorer to be denied the opportunity to see giraffes, roses, bombardier beetles, tulips, and little black house cats with white spots on their chests that sit on our laps as we write, we lose one of the true wonders of the world every time one of these glorious variations on a theme set by the first language slips away unrecorded for posterity.

Many people who live with animals have noticed that their cat or dog becomes solicitous of them when they are feeling unwell. A cat who is normally aloof may come sit in the sick person's lap; a normally rambunctious dog may tone himself down when his human friend isn't up to romping or running. In some cases, the ability of animals to sense illness in a human has been lifesaving.

We hold these stories and mad idea and events in our head and they run around and around telling us we are different, separate, broken. Then one day the mad idea escapes the asylum. Most times it’s unplanned. It just tumbles out on the lap of the man sitting next to us on the bus, or it slips sideways into a conversation on line at the Trader Joe’s or it falls out at the kitchen table when your neighbor comes to pick up her cat. And there is a terrifying moment when it first hits the light of day, where we think, “holy mother of God! What have I done? How could I have been to casual with my crazy ways?” But the man on the bus just smiles and nods his head, and the casher takes a moment to look us in the eye and the neighbor sits for a cup of tea and together we move into some new agreements that we are all in fact crazy and it’s so much nicer to be out of the closet with it all.

The cat's not hurting you, Oscar. Get a grip." "Mistress, make it stop looking at me!" I pulled up to a stoplight and assessed my posse. "Cat, stop it. Oscar doesn't want to be your friend." At the sound of my voice, the feline shifted it's gaze to me. "There," I said to Oscar. "All better." Keeping its eyes on me, the cat moved with stealthy determination, climbing into Oscar's lap. "Mistress!" "Stop it, both of ya'll," I said as the light changed.

I wonder if he still hates me,” Silas says as the cat edges out from the couch, pale green eyes like little limes in the dark. As if to answer Silas’s question, Screwtape takes a flying leap onto his lap and begins to purr wildly. “I’m not falling for this anymore,” Silas says firmly. He moves to push Screwtape away, but as soon as his palms are within a few inches of Screwtape’s wild fur, the cat extends his claws into Silas’s thighs. Silas winces and muffles a yelp. “Need some help?” I say, trying to hide my laughter. “That’d be great,” he answered tensely. I hurry over and scoop Screwtape into my arms. The cat instantly melts against me and rubs his face against mine, the scent of catnip on his breath. I crinkle my nose. “Thanks.” Silas sighs in relief. “I can hunt wolves, but it’s a cat I can’t handle. Not terrible manly of me, is it?” “I won’t tell anyone,” I answer with a soft smile that he returns.

She had not loved it so. For days at a time she had been unconscious of its outward aspect, for long before she saw it she had loved it and blessed it. With no earnest but a name, a few lines and letters on a map, and a spray of beech-leaves, she had trusted the place and staked everything on her trust. She had struggled to come, but there had been no such struggle for Titus. It was as easy for him to quit Bloomsbury for the Chilterns as for a cat to jump from a hard chair to a soft. Now after a little scrabbling and exploration he was curled up in the green lap and purring over the landscape. The green lap was comfortable. He meant to stay in it, for he knew where he was well off. It was so comfortable that he could afford to wax loving, praise its kindly slopes, stretch out a discriminating paw and pat it. But Great Mop was no more to him than any other likeable country lap. He liked it because he was in possession. His comfort apart, it was a place like any other place.

The costumes help. They make it less real, disguise what it really is both for the actors and for the people who'll see it on the screen. It's like the people who read Anna Karenina, and because it's in Russia they can say, 'Oh, that's not my pain they're talking about.' And Chris is tough. She goes from one thing to the next and doesn't worry about the past. When a cat sits mere purring on your lap, you know for a fact she isn't thinking about her former owner; she's thinking about her dinner. That's Chris.

Without breathing, Kya stared at the floor outside her cell and within a few seconds Sunday Justice stepped into view. His markings were surprisingly stark and soft at the same time. No hesitation this time, he stepped into her cell and walked up to her. She put the plate on the floor and he ate the chicken- pulled the drumstick right onto the floor- then lapped up the gravy. Skipped the butter beans. She smiled through it all, then wiped the floor clean with tissue. He jumped on her bed, and a sweet sleep wrapped them together.

Humans think they’re in control, but cats and dogs seem to have humanity well-trained. Dawn’s cat gets fed twice a day, his kitty litter is changed, and he gets to sit on her lap, purring while she watches television. Is that what life is like for AI? Humans care for their computer servers, provide them with electricity and play with them, but instead of dangling a toy on a string, it’s an electronic task that needs to be accomplished. Or is it humanity that’s the cat? Maybe, one day, when artificial intelligence achieves actual sentience, it’ll be humans that become pets.

Describe a cat for me,’ Morgo said. ‘Let it take shape in your mind. All your recollections and associations with cats.’ Thors Provoni thought about cats. It seemed a harmless thing to do as they waited out the six days until they reached Earth. ‘Opinionated’ Morgo said at last. ‘Me, you mean? On the subject?’ ‘No, I mean cats. And self-centred.’ Angrily, Provoni said, ‘A cat is loyal to its master. But shows it in a subtle way. That’s the whole point, a cat gives himself to no one, and this has been his way for millions of years, and then you manage to knock a chink in his armor, and he rubs against you and sits on your lap and purrs. So, because of his love for you, he breaks the inherent genetic behavior-pattern of two million years. What a victory that is.’ ‘Assuming the cat is sincere,’ Morgo said, ‘Rather than trying to cadge extra food.’ ‘You think a cat can be a hypocrite?’ Provoni asked. ‘I’ve never heard an insinuation of insincerity directed towards cats. Actually, much of the critisism comes from their brutal honesty; if they don’t like a person then shit, they’re of to someone else.’ ‘I think,’ Morgo said, ‘When we get to Terra I would like to have a dog.

THE ACCURSED SHIP didn’t sink for a full three hours. By the time it did, I was feeling so traumatized that even watching Dogface die offered little consolation. The dialogue, the acting, the vast emptiness of the whole endeavor! Was that what passed for cinema these days? I felt like I had been violated; violated by a team of accountants. Laura, prostrated by grief, lay weeping on my lap. Frank stared stolidly at the credits, over which, as a coup de grâce, a cat or cats were being strangled to the effect that “My Heart Will Go On,” which at this moment in time was not a sentiment I could endorse.

Look,let me give you the CliffNotes: You're a bitch in this life and Daniel doesn't care.Shocker! He courts you for a few weeks,there's some exchanging of flowers.A big kiss and then kaboom. Okay? Not much more to see." "You don't understand." "What? I don't understand that Victorians are as stuffy as an attic and as boring as watching wallpaper peel? Come on,if you're going to zigzag through your past,make it count. Let's hit some highlights. Luce didn't budge. "Is there a way to make you disappear?" "Do I have to stuff you in this Announcer like a cat in a suitcase? Let's move!" "I need to see that he loves me, not just some idea of me because of some curse that he's bound to.I need to feel like there's something stronger keeping us together. Something real." Bill took a seat next to Luce on the grass. Then he seemed to think better of it and actually crawled onto her lap. At first,she wanted to swat him, and the flies buzzing around his head,but when he looked up at her,his eyes appeared sincere. "Honey,Daniel loving the real you is the last thing you should be worried about. You're freaking soul mates. You two coined the phrase. You don't have to stick around here to see that.It's in every life.

In mid-morning, Qwilleran set out from the barn carrying a baker’s box tied with red plaid ribbon. He said goodbye to the cats, told them where he was going, and estimated when he would return. The more you talk to cats, he believed, the smarter they become. Koko was disturbingly smart. Qwilleran called him a fine fellow and had a great deal of respect for him. Yum Yum was a dainty little female with winning ways and a fondness for laps, the contents of wastebaskets, and small shiny objects she could hide under the rug. He gave them some parting instructions. “Don’t answer the phone. Don’t pull the plug on the refrigerator. Don’t open the door to poll-takers.” They looked at him blankly.

Pounce trotted past the newcomers, carrying a black kitten with a white bib and mittens in his mouth. The small creature hung in Pounce’s grip, ears flat, hindquarters and tail curled up. It seemed as dejected as a body could be at my cat’s handling… My cat dropped his captive in Aniki’s lap. He then lectured her in meows, saying, I cannot let you maul me about. Do it to him. …Kora grabbed Pounce. “Why her?” she asked, holding Pounce up. “I’m a mage. By rights I should have a cat. You like Aniki more than you like me!” Ersken said, “I think Pounce is in a giving mood today.” Here came my cat with a second kitten. This one was a light and dark brown ball with thin black stripes and spots. Pounce dropped it in front of Kora.

His coat was white, his eyes as black as ink, his tail pale pink. He was cuter than the kind of mice you didn’t want in your house, an elegant little gentleman. If Amity were Cinderella, Snowball would morph into a magnificent stallion to pull her carriage. That’s the kind of special mouse he was. Now, after she turned on her TV and streamed an animated Disney movie that she had seen many times and that didn’t have a cat in it, she took Snowball out of his cage. She sat in an armchair, and for a while he ran up and down her arms and across her shoulders, pausing now and then to stare at her with what she believed was affection. Then he settled in her lap, on his back. She rubbed his tummy with one finger, and he relaxed into an ecstatic trance.

One can live without books. Birds live. Cats live. Even the best of dogs live. But only humans can soar on the words from a book. Stories fling us high into the clouds with imagination. Poems make hearts weep with emotion. Science stuns the mind with wonder." She let her hands fall to her lap. "Without the stimulation of literature, you can live, yes. But your soul will be earthbound. A clod without imagination." "I..." He blinked as if taken aback for just an instant before assuming his usual haughty expression. "I assure you, my lady, I live perfectly well without books." "No." She shook her head, pitying him, this severe man who thought he wanted for nothing. "No. You breathe and you move, but inside, in your mind, there is only gray. You don't know what it is to soar.

When everyone is seated, Galen uses a pot holder to remove the lid from the huge speckled pan in the center of the table. And I almost upchuck. Fish. Crabs. And...is that squid hair? Before I can think of a polite version of the truth-I'd rather eat my own pinky finger than seafood-Galen plops the biggest piece of fish on my plate, then scoops a mixture of crabmeat and scallops on top of it. As the steam wafts its way to my nose, my chances of staying polite dwindle. The only think I can think of is to make it look like I'm hiccupping instead of gagging. What did I smell earlier that almost had me salivating? It couldn't have been this. I fork the fillet and twist, but it feels like twisting my own gut. Mush it, dice it, mix it all up. No matter what I do, how it looks, I can't bring it near my mouth. A promise is a promise, dream or no dream. Even if real fish didn't save me in Granny's pond, the fake ones my imagination conjured up sure comforted me until help arrived. And now I'm expected to eat their cousins? No can do. I set the fork down and sip some water. I sense Galen is watching. Out of my peripheral, I see the others shoveling the chum into their faces. But not Galen. He sits still, head tilted, waiting for me to take a bite first. Of all the times to be a gentleman! What happened to the guy who sprawled me over his lap like a three-year-old just a few minutes ago? Still, I can't do it. And they don't even have a dog for me to feed under the table, which used to be my go-to plan at Chloe's grandmother's house. One time Chloe even started a food fight to get me out of it. I glance around the table, but Rayna's the only person I'd aim this slop at. Plus, I'd risk getting the stuff on me, which is almost as bad as in me. Galen nudges me with his elbow. "Aren't you hungry? You're not feeling bad again, are you?" This gets the others' attention. The commotion of eating stops. Everyone stares. Rayna, irritated that her gluttony has been interrupted. Toraf smirking like I've done something funny. Galen's mom wearing the same concerned look he is. Can I lie? Should I lie? What if I'm invited over again, and they fix seafood because I lied about it just this once? Telling Galen my head hurts doesn't get me out of future seafood buffets. And telling him I'm not hungry would be pointless since my stomach keeps gurgling like an emptying drain. No, I can't lie. Not if I ever want to come back here. Which I do. I sigh and set the fork down. "I hate seafood," I tell him. Toraf's sudden cough startles me. The sound of him choking reminds me of a cat struggling with a hair ball. I train my eyes on Galen, who has stiffened to a near statue. Jeez, is this all his mom knows how to make? Or have I just shunned the Forza family's prize-winning recipe for grouper? "You...you mean you don't like this kind of fish, Emma?" Galen says diplomatically. I desperately want to nod, to say, "Yes, that's it, not this kind of fish"-but that doesn't get me out of eating the crabmeat-and-scallop mountain on my plate. I shake my head. "No. Not just this kind of fish. I hate it all. I can't eat any of it. Can hardly stand to smell it." Way to go for the jugular there, stupid! Couldn't I just say I don't care for it? Did I have to say I hate it? Hate even the smell of it? And why am I blushing? It's not a crime to gag on seafood. And for God's sakes, I won't eat anything that still has its eyeballs.

Mr. Harrison is gallant, and he understands art. Deene says the menfolk chatted away an entire afternoon while Jenny eavesdropped, and Mr. Harrison had eyes only for her.” Maggie picked up Timothy, though how he’d gotten into the room was a mystery. “Mr. Harrison insisted Jenny be free to help him complete his commissions, though when I pop into the studio, Jenny’s always before her own easel, spattered in paint and looking…” “Happy,” Sophie said. “She looks happy when she paints.” The cat started purring in Maggie’s lap, loud enough for all to hear. “We’re agreed, then,” Louisa said. “Mr. Harrison makes Jenny happy, and Paris would make her miserable.” Eve yawned, Maggie stroked the cat, and Sophie picked up an embroidery hoop. “Paris would make her miserable, if she were allowed to go, which will never come to pass as long as Their Graces draw breath.

A crash of thunder shakes the storage room, startling us both. Another one follows on its heels, causing Beau to lift his head and howl. I scoot over to his side, scratching him behind one ear. “It’s okay, buddy. We’re safe in here.” I hope, I add silently. “Look at Sadie. She’s not being a scaredy-cat. Oops, sorry, guys,” I toss over my shoulder toward the cats. “Just a figure of speech. How’s it going over there in the USS Enterprise?” “You always talk to them like that?” Ryder asks me, his voice a little shaky. “Pretty much.” I look at him sharply, noticing how pale he’s gotten. A muscle in his jaw is working furiously, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Are you okay?” He doesn’t get a chance to answer. Another clap of thunder reverberates throughout the small space, followed by a horrible cracking sound and then a terrifyingly loud crashing noise. I rise to my knees, looking toward the door that leads out. “What the hell was that?” Ryder reaches for me, his fingers circling my wrist in a manacling grip. “You can’t go out there, Jemma!” I struggle to release myself. “I’ve got to see--” “No! There’s a goddamned tornado out there. Shit!” He pulls me toward him, and I practically fall into his lap. He’s shaking, I realize. Trembling all over. “What is wrong with you?” I ask him. “What’s wrong with me?” His voice rises shrilly. “You’re the one trying to go out in a tornado. You’ve got to wait till the sirens quit.” “I know. But crap, that sounded like something came through the roof.” I scoot away from him, putting space between our bodies. I can smell him--soap and shampoo and the clean, crisp-smelling cologne he always wears. I can smell something else, too--fear. He’s terrified. Of the storm?

Then something moved on the hall floor, just outside the bars. Her eyes swung there. Sunday Justice sat on his haunches staring at her dark eyes with his green ones. Her heart raced. Locked up alone all these weeks, and now this creature could step wizardlike between the bars. Be with her. Sunday Justice broke the stare and looked down the hall, toward the inmates' talk. Kya was terrified that he would leave her and walk to them. But he looked back at her, blinked in obligatory boredom, and squeezed easily between the bars. Inside. Kya breathed out. Whispered, "Please stay." Taking his time, he sniffed his way around the cell, researching the damp cement walls, the exposed pipes, and the sink, all the while compelled to ignore her. A small crack in the wall was the most interesting to him. She knew because he flicked his thoughts on his tail. He ended his tour next to the small bed. Then, just like that, he jumped onto her lap and circled, his large white paws finding soft purchase on her thighs. Kya sat frozen, her arms slightly raised, so as not to interfere with his maneuvering. Finally, he settled as though he had nested here every night of his life. He looked at her. Gently she touched his head, then scratched his neck. A loud purr erupted like a current. She closed her eyes at such easy acceptance. A deep pause in a lifetime of longing. Afraid to move, she sat stiff until her leg cramped, then shifted slightly to stretch her muscles. Sunday Justice, without opening his eyes, slid off her lap and curled up next to her side. She lay down fully clothed, and they both nestled in. She watched him sleep, then followed. Not falling toward a jolt, but a drifting, finally, into an empty calm. Once during the night, she opened her eyes and watched him sleeping on his back, forepaws stretched one way, hind paws the other.

He stroked me on the head, and I nuzzled into him like a cat. I saw his chest heave, his lungs filling with his accomplishment, our accomplishment. I had never been so attracted to him, or any man, before. Then he took me by the face and kissed me harder than I've ever been kissed. He kissed me over and over, his lips only loosely aiming for mine. He pulled my lips with the strong pucker of his mouth, then let them snap back. All I could do was give in. That's all I wanted to do. We made our way to the couch, lips locked. He laid me back so my feet were off the ground and my head hung over the armrest. He massaged my neck hard, digging his fingers alongside my spine. His breathing took on a husky bite, an animal roughness that gave me goose bumps. His hands followed my curves, focusing on my hips and butt. I kicked my leg around and sat on his lap. It wasn't very comfortable, but it'd have to do. "You are irresistible," he purred, and toyed with the straps of my dress.

Or, as she sits reading the “Uplifting Thoughts” in The Liberty Magazine, the cat will jump into her lap. She will fondle that soft hill of hair and let the warmth of the animal’s body seep over and into the deeply private areas of her lap. Sometimes the magazine drops, and she opens her legs just a little, and the two of them will be still together, perhaps shifting a little together, sleeping a little together, until four o’clock, when the intruder comes home from work vaguely anxious about what’s for dinner. The cat will always know that he is first in her affections. Even after she bears a child. For she does bear a child—easily, and painlessly. But only one. A son. Named Junior. One such girl from Mobile, or Meridian, or Aiken who did not sweat in her armpits nor between her thighs, who smelled of wood and vanilla, who had made soufflés in the Home Economics Department, moved with her husband, Louis, to Lorain, Ohio. Her name was Geraldine. There she built her nest, ironed shirts, potted bleeding hearts, played with her cat, and birthed Louis Junior

Back in Tahoe, when he had broken the news to her that they had to go home, he had been put on the defensive by the fact that he was the one who’d had personal contact with a murdered woman. He had the feeling now that she was never going to forgive him for what she viewed as rape, and this latest incident had only fueled her fire. For the first time in their married lives, she’d stood up to him and rejected his excuses. He was beginning to think she’d known about his dalliances for years but for her own reasons had chosen to play dumb. But when she’d learned that the police wanted to question him regarding Marsha Benton’s murder, her days of playing dumb seemed to have ended. Penny feigned interest in her magazine, but inside, her thoughts were tumbling wildly. Last night while Mark was in the shower, she’d called Ken Walters, their lawyer. Ken had started off by claiming he couldn’t divulge his conversations with Mark, at which point she promptly reminded him that the money in their house was hers first, not Mark’s, and if he wanted to stay on retainer for the Presley Corporation, he’d better start talking. So he did. Learning that Marsha had been pregnant when she was murdered had nearly sent her to her knees. Knowing that her body had been found on their oil lease outside Tyler only made what she was thinking worse. She’d known Mark was devious, but she’d never believed him capable of murder. Now she wasn’t so sure. What she was certain of was that she wasn’t going to be dragged down with him if he fell. Tonight they were back in Dallas in what had been her father’s home first and was now hers. This was her territory, and she wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Mark glanced up from the chair where he’d been reading, watching the casual attitude with which Penny was sipping her drink. She was flipping through the pages of the magazine in her lap and humming beneath her breath as if nothing was wrong. It was unnerving. As he watched, he began to realize Penny wasn’t her father’s daughter by birth alone. There seemed to be more of the old man in her than he would have believed. Ever since he’d put his hands around her neck back in Tahoe, she had been cold and unyielding, even when he’d apologized profusely. Then, when he’d had to tell her that the police demanded his presence back in Dallas for questioning regarding Marsha Benton’s death, she’d been livid. He’d tried to explain, but she wasn’t having any of it. He didn’t want to lose her. He couldn’t lose her. Even though the world assumed that Mark Presley was the reigning power behind the Presley Corporation, it was really Penny. Mark had the authority simply because Penny was his wife. If she kicked his ass to the curb, the only thing he would be taking with him were the bruises.

My shrink suggested that if I was going to continue traveling so much that I could look into getting a service animal expressly trained to provide emotional support to people with anxiety disorders. I considered getting Hunter S. Thomcat trained, but then I remembered that he gets spontaneous nervous diarrhea every time he's in a moving car, and I'd imagine that holding a cat who seems to have explosive plane dysentery wouldn't necessarily *help* my anxiety as give me something new (and horribly unsanitary) to be anxious about. I called around to different service-animal specialists and spoke to a woman who told me it's better to get an animal who has already been trained and has the right temperament. She also told me cats aren’t preferred emotional-support animals for anxiety disorder, but my cats hate dogs so I figured I was fucked, but then she told me that the Americans with Disabilities Act was recently interpreted as allowing “people with anxiety disorders to travel with an emotional-support pony on airlines.” So basically I could bring a goddamn pony on board with me. I’m pretty sure a pony wouldn’t fit under my seat or in my lap, but I rather liked the idea of a small medicinal horse standing in the aisle beside me while I braided his mane. Plus, Pony Danza would make a great pack animal and instead of bringing suitcases I could just put my extra clothes on him and that way I wouldn’t have to pay to check a bag. Plus, the pony wouldn’t get cold because it would be wearing my pajamas.

A knock at the enameled door of the carriage altered them to the presence of a porter and a platform inspector just outside. Sebastian looked up and handed the baby back to Evie. He went to speak to the men. After a minute or two, he came back from the threshold with a basket. Looking both perturbed and amused, he brought it to Phoebe. “This was delivered to the station for you.” “Just now?” Phoebe asked with a nonplussed laugh. “Why, I believe it’s Ernestine’s mending basket! Don’t say the Ravenels went to the trouble of sending someone all the way to Alton to return it?” “It’s not empty,” her father said. As he set the basket in her lap, it quivered and rustled, and a blood-curdling yowl emerged. Astonished, Phoebe fumbled with the latch on the lid and opened it. The black cat sprang out and crawled frantically up her front, clinging to her shoulder with such ferocity that nothing could have detached her claws. “Galoshes!” Justin exclaimed, hurrying over to her. “Gosh-gosh!” Stephen cried in excitement. Phoebe stroked the frantic cat and tried to calm her. “Galoshes, how . . . why are you . . . oh, this is Mr. Ravenel’s doing! I’m going to murder him. You poor little thing.” Justin came to stand beside her, running his hands over the dusty, bedraggled feline. “Are we going to keep her now, Mama?” “I don’t think we have a choice,” Phoebe said distractedly. “Ivo, will you go with Justin to the dining compartment, and fetch her some food and water?” The two boys dashed off immediately. “Why has he done this?” Phoebe fretted. “He probably couldn’t make her stay at the barn, either. But she’s not meant to be a pet. She’s sure to run off as soon as we reach home.” Resuming his seat next to Evie, Sebastian said dryly, “Redbird, I doubt that creature will stray more than an arm’s length from you.” Discovering a note in the mending basket, Phoebe plucked it out and unfolded it. She instantly recognized West’s handwriting. Unemployed Feline Seeking Household Position To Whom It May Concern, I hereby offer my services as an experienced mouser and personal companion. References from a reputable family to be provided upon request. Willing to accept room and board in lieu of pay. Indoor lodgings preferred. Your servant, Galoshes the Cat Glancing up from the note, Phoebe found her parents’ questioning gazes on her. “Job application,” she explained sourly. “From the cat.” “How charming,” Seraphina exclaimed, reading over her shoulder. “‘Personal companion,’ my foot,” Phoebe muttered. “This is a semi-feral animal who has lived in outbuildings and fed on vermin.” “I wonder,” Seraphina said thoughtfully. “If she were truly feral, she wouldn’t want any contact with humans. With time and patience, she might become domesticated.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “It seems we’ll find out.” The boys returned from the dining car with a bowl of water and a tray of refreshments. Galoshes descended to the floor long enough to devour a boiled egg, an anchovy canapé, and a spoonful of black caviar from a silver dish on ice. Licking her lips and purring, the cat jumped back into Phoebe’s lap and curled up with a sigh.

They found Tharion on the couch with Ithan, the tv blasting the latest sports stats. Tharion munched on a piece of pizza, long legs sprawled out in front of him, bare feet on the coffee table. Ruhn might have stepped inside to grab a piece of that pizza had Bryce not gone still. A Fae sort of stillness, sizing up a threat. His instinct went to high alert, bellowing at him to defend, to attack, to slaughter any threat to his family. Ruhn suppressed it, held back by the shadows begging to be unleashed, to hide Bryce from sight. Ithan called over to them, “Pizza’s on the counter if you want some.” Bryce remained silent as fear washed over her scent. Ruhn’s fingers grazed the cool metal of the gun strapped to his thigh. “Your cat’s a sweetheart, by the way,” Ithan went on, not taking his focus from the TV as he stroked the white cat curled on his lap. Bryce slowly shut the door behind her. “He scared the shit out of me when he leapt onto the counter a few minutes ago, the bastard.” The wolf ran his fingers through the luxurious coat, earning a deep purr in response. The cat had stunning blue eyes. They seemed keenly aware as they fixed on Bryce. Ruhn’s shadows gathered at his shoulders, snakes waiting to strike. He subtly drew his gun. Behind her, a familiar ripple of ether-laced power kissed over her skin. A small reassurance as Bryce croaked, “That’s not a cat.” Hunt arrived at the apartment just in time to hear Bryce’s words through the shut front door. He was inside in a moment, lightning gathered at his fingers. “Oh, calm yourself,” the Prince of the Chasm said, leaping into the coffee table.

Yesterday, after he had gone, they emerged into the verandah fresh from Moses and bursting with eagerness to tell me all about it. "Herr Schenk told us to-day about Moses," began the April baby, making a rush at me. "Oh?" "Yes, and a boser, boser Konig who said every boy must be deaded, and Moses was the allerliebster." "Talk English, my dear baby, and not such a dreadful mixture," I besought. "He wasn't a cat." "A cat?" "Yes, he wasn't a cat, that Moses—a boy was he." "But of course he wasn't a cat," I said with some severity; "no one ever supposed he was." "Yes, but mummy," she explained eagerly, with much appropriate hand- action, "the cook's Moses is a cat." "Oh, I see. Well?" "And he was put in a basket in the water, and that did swim. And then one time they comed, and she said—" "Who came? And who said?" "Why, the ladies; and the Konigstochter said, 'Ach hormal, da schreit so etwas.'" "In German?" "Yes, and then they went near, and one must take off her shoes and stockings and go in the water and fetch that tiny basket, and then they made it open, and that Kind did cry and cry and strampel so"—here both the babies gave such a vivid illustration of the strampeln that the verandah shook—"and see! it is a tiny baby. And they fetched somebody to give it to eat, and the Konigstochter can keep that boy, and further it doesn't go." "Do you love Moses, mummy?" asked the May baby, jumping into my lap, and taking my face in both her hands—one of the many pretty, caressing little ways of a very pretty, caressing little creature. "Yes," I replied bravely, "I love him." "Then I too!" they cried with simultaneous gladness, the seal having thus been affixed to the legitimacy of their regard for him.

The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with old and new summer houses and many fountains and white benches that came suddenly into sight from foliage-hung hiding-places; there was a great and constantly increasing family of white cats that prowled the many flower-beds and were silhouetted suddenly at night against the darkening trees. It was on one of the shadowy paths that Beatrice at last captured Amory, after Mr. Blaine had, as usual, retired for the evening to his private library. After reproving him for avoiding her, she took him for a long tête-a-tête in the moonlight. He could not reconcile himself to her beauty, that was mother to his own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the grace of a fortunate woman of thirty. "Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a strange, weird time after I left you." "Did you, Beatrice?" "When I had my last breakdown"—she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant feat. "The doctors told me"—her voice sang on a confidential note—"that if any many alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he would have been physically shattered, my dear, and in his grave—long in his grave." Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker. "Yes," continued Beatrice tragically, "I had dreams—wonderful visions." She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. "I saw bronze rivers lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air, parti-colored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music and the flare of barbaric trumpets—what?" Amory had snickered. "What, Amory?" "I said go on, Beatrice." "That was all—it merely recurred and recurred—gardens that flaunted coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that whirled and swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest moons——" "Are you quite well now, Beatrice?" "Quite well—as well as I will ever be. I am not understood, Amory. I know that can't express it to you, Amory, but—I am not understood." Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his head gently against her shoulder.

BITCH THE POT Tea and gossip go together. At least, that’s the stereotypical view of a tea gathering: a group of women gathered around the teapot exchanging tittle-tattle. As popularity of the beverage imported from China (‘tea’ comes from the Mandarin Chinese cha) increased, it became particularly associated with women, and above all with their tendency to gossip. Francis Grose’s Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue lists various slang terms for tea, including ‘prattle-broth’, ‘cat-lap’ (‘cat’ being a contemporary slang for a gossipy old woman), and ‘scandal broth’. To pour tea, meanwhile, was not just to ‘play mother’, as one enduring English expression has it, but also to ‘bitch the pot’ – to drink tea was to simply ‘bitch’. At this time a bitch was a lewd or sensual woman as well as a potentially malicious one, and in another nineteenth-century dictionary the phraseology is even more unguarded, linking tea with loose morals as much as loquaciousness: ‘How the blowens [whores] lush the slop. How the wenches drink tea!’ The language of tea had become another vehicle for sexism, and a misogynistic world view in which the air women exchanged was as hot as the beverage they sipped. ‘Bitch party’ and ‘tabby party’ (again the image of cattiness) were the terms of choice for such gossipy gatherings. Men, it seems, were made of stronger stuff, and drank it too. Furthermore, any self-respecting man would ensure his wife and daughters stayed away from tea. The pamphleteer and political writer William Cobbett declared in 1822: The gossip of the tea-table is no bad preparatory school for the brothel. The girl that has been brought up, merely to boil the tea kettle, and to assist in the gossip inseparable from the practice, is a mere consumer of food, a pest to her employer, and a curse to her husband, if any man be so unfortunate as to affix his affections upon her. In the twenty-first century, to ‘spill the T’ has become a firm part of drag culture slang for gossiping. T here may stand for either ‘truth’ or the drink, but either way ‘weak tea’ has come to mean a story that doesn’t quite hold up – and it’s often one told by women. Perhaps it’s time for bitches to make a fresh pot.

From the day I brought the kitten home there was a change in my husband, he didn't go out to the bars nearly as much, he tried to be home every night by dark, and he stoked the fires in both stoves and fussed all over that kitten, somehow he became that kitten's surrogate mother, and not only did my husband meticulously brush his teeth every night, he quit drinking beer at night altogether so as not to reek of it. And whenever I woke up to have a look, there was that kitten suckling at my husband's knuckle, and that's how they slept together, that's how they slept together even when that kitten grew into a full-grown tabby cat, that tabby cat couldn't fall asleep unless he was snuggled up to my husband and suckling at his knuckle. Little Ethan, that's what we named our tabby, was so in love with my husband that he just couldn't wait for evening to come, and when I made the beds Ethan liked to slip under the covers and romp around in the dark, even I fell in love with that tabby, even I fell in love with him as if he were our own little child, even I couldn't wait to see our tabby cat, who was fond of sunning himself up on the roof, up there where my husband typed on his typewriter, in fact, these days my husband even wrote while I was at home, because that tabby cat sat right next to him, gazing wisely at the typewriter keys, gazing lovestruck at my husband, and into my lap he would come, and then back to my husband at the typewriter, some sort of muse to my husband is what that little creature was.

You’re three minutes late,” he said, stretching out on my grandmother’s lap. “But it’s all right. Úna fed and milked me.” He sniggered to himself. “By that I mean she gave me some milk, rather than turned me into a dairy cat.

There was a pop of backfire, and Iris jumped. It sounded so much like a gun firing, and her pulse spiked. She winced, fighting the urge to cower; choosing instead to open her eyes. Roman was sitting on the milk crate just as she left him, with a scowl on his face. And a cat curled up in his lap.

Would Cuneo feel at home here?” he asked the cats on his lap. They nuzzled his hand. It was said that their purring could patch a pail of broken bones back together and revive a fossilized soul; yet when their work was done, cats would go their own way without a backward glance. They loved without reticence, no strings attached—but no promises either.

There was definitely a cat and another animal, probably a rabbit, in the shed. Her suspicions were confirmed soon enough. Madeleine lit a candle, its light illuminating a wooden hutch where an enormous rabbit was nibbling at some freshly picked clover. In her lap, the little grey cat was all grown up; it was the same cat Madeleine had been holding on the balcony the day when one look from her teal-colored eyes had been enough to floor poor Solange. Holy pictures were pinned over the hutch: Saint Anne, the Miraculous Virgin of the Smile (who cured ten-year-old Thérèse), Saint Veronica holding her veil, and Saint Joan of Arc had all been carefully pinned in a row, looking down tenderly over the big orange rabbit who went on munching his clover. Pinned to the frame of the hutch was a piece of wax paper with the animal's name- Lazarus- written on it. "His name's Lazarus," Madeleine whispered as she grabbed him by the ears. Solange winced in pain. "You have to pick them up by the ears or else you hurt them. I'll set him down on your lap." Solange had never touched a living rabbit before. She stroked Lazarus, who right then seemed to her to be the gentlest, most charming thing to ever have walked this earth.

You are somewhere you don't want to be, with people who make you feel uncomfortable, who you think do not like you; you certainly dislike some of them. They are ambitious and confident, with their own agendas and their own scores to settle. Pause for a moment. Take a deep breath. Remember why you are here and what you want to achieve. Remember what your goals are. In order to achieve these, you have to spend time with people, but it doesn't mean you have to like them, be liked by them or even attempt to be like them. Imagine your cat is sitting on your lap and you are stroking his ears. Just wait for your moment, take another deep breath and say the minimum you need to say to make your point. Then shut up.

find. Henry said she lived right across the hall.” Chapter 14 “So, this is the scene of the crime,” Ida said as they pulled up in front of an old Victorian. From outward appearances, it was hard to imagine that something sinister had happened inside. It was nicely kept, with off-white siding and purple trim. “Looks like a birthday cake,” Ruth said as they walked up the steps toward the purple door. She opened the door to reveal a small entryway. A set of stairs loomed in front of them. Old-fashioned green flowered wallpaper papered the walls. The floor was hardwood, scuffed from years of wear. To the right was a solid oak door with the number Two on it. “According to the case files, Rosa and Henry lived at number two.” Nans gestured toward the door on the other side of the hall which had a number One. “So this one must be Mrs. Pettigrew.” Ruth was standing closest to the door, so she knocked. “Who is it?” A voice drifted out almost before the knock stopped echoing. Clearly, Mrs. Pettigrew kept a close eye on the place and had seen them come in. “It’s the Ladies’ Detective Agency.” Nans’s voice took on an official tone. “We have some questions on a case if you’d be so kind as to answer them.” Of course, Doris Pettigrew would be thrilled to answer questions. If she was truly the busybody that it sounded like she was, she wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of gossip and finding out exactly what case the ladies were referring to. Lexy heard a series of locks clicking and chains sliding, and then the door cracked and a rheumy blue eye appeared. “Do you have any credentials?” “Of course.” Nans shoved a business card at her. It was in a laminate case, so it resembled an official badge of some sort. Doris snatched the card and pulled it inside. It took her a few seconds, but Nans’s card must have passed muster because the door opened and Doris said, “Come in.” Ida went in first. “Oh, this is… unusual.” Lexy peered over Ida’s head. She couldn’t be sure exactly what Ida thought was unusual. There were so many things. It could have been the giant four-foot-tall dolls that stood around the edge of the room. Or it might have been the knitted afghans that covered every surface. Or maybe it was the stuffed animals that were sitting on the couch as if holding a conversation. Then again, it might have been the herd of cats that was sniffing around Ida’s ankles. Doris handed the card back to Nans. “I’m Doris Pettigrew, by the way.” They all introduced themselves, and Doris gestured toward the living room for them to sit. Ida gingerly plucked a large pink elephant off the sofa and put it on the floor then took its place. A black cat immediately jumped into her lap. The rest of the ladies followed her lead, moving dolls aside, disturbing stuffed animals, and pushing cats out of their laps. Lexy sat in the only chair not occupied by a stuffed animal. The smell of mothballs wafted up as the rough wool of the crocheted granny square pillow irritated her arm. Achoo! Helen sneezed and pushed the fluffy tail of a white Persian out of her face.

God’s Song I am the amoeba swimming in pond water. I am the elephant stepping gently on huge feet. I am the whale that sings its song seven fathoms deep. I am the chickadee with dark bright eye. I am the hawk rising swift on currents of wind. I am the tiger stalking its prey. I am the platypus, most confused of all animals. I am the wild goose flying on strong winds. I am the rabbit, fleet of foot and timid of heart. I am the minnow, darting in shallow water; the tadpole transforming into something new; the caterpillar never dreaming of wings; the butterfly that speaks to you of resurrection; the cat curled in your lap; the spider spinning her web; the cow, patient servant of humanity; and the cricket, singing its autumn song. I am the breath of each one. I am the Spirit in each. Look. I am everywhere you turn, if you only had eyes to see.

He rubbed his cheek against my leg. Hold the cat. You’ll feel better. I don’t think so. He rubbed against my leg insistently. Hold the cat. I don’t want to hold the cat. He reared up suddenly on his hind legs, and hooked his vicious little front claws into both flesh and leggings. Don’t talk back! Pick up the cat. “Fennel, stop that! Where are your manners?” Jinna exclaimed in dismay. She bent toward the finger pest, but I stopped swiftly, to unhook his claws from my flesh. I freed myself but before I could straighten up, he leapt to my shoulder. For all his size, Fennel had amazing agility. He landed, not heavily, but as if someone had put a large, friendly hand on my shoulder. Hold the cat. You’ll feel better. Steadying him as I stood up was easier than plucking him loose. Jinna clucked and exclaimed, but I assured her it was all right. She drew out one of the chairs that faced the small hearth and smoothed the pillow on it. I sat down, and it tipped back under me. It was a rocker. The moment I was settled, Fennel moved down to my lap and settled himself in a warm mound. I folded my hands atop him in a show of ignoring him. He gave me a slit-eyed cat grin. Be nice to me. She loves me best.

Oh, Tom!” she exclaimed in a voice of deep sympathy. She leaned toward me, studying my face. “Poor man, what’s happened to you?” Empty as a hollow log when the mice are eaten. “My wolf died.” It shocked me that I spoke the truth so bluntly. Jinna was silent, staring at me. I knew she could not understand. I did not expect her to understand. But then, as her helples silence lengthened, I felt very much as if she might understand, for she offered me no useless words. Abruptly, she dropped her knitting in her lap and leaned across to put her hand on my forearm. “Will you be all right?” she asked me. It was not an empty question; she genuinely listened for my reply. “In time,” I told her, and for the first time, I admitted that was true. As disloyal as the thought felt, I knew that as time passed, I would be myself again. And in that moment, I felt for the first time the sensation that Black Rolf had tried to describe to me. The wolfish part of my soul stirred, and, Yes, you will be yourself again, and that is as it should be, I heard near as clearly as if Nighteyes had truly shared the thought with me. Like remembering, but more so, Rolf had told me. I sat very still, savoring the sensation. Then it passed, and a shiver ran over me. “Drink your tea, you’re taking a chill,” Jinna advised me, and leaned down to toss another piece of wood on the fire. I did as she suggested. As I set the cup down, I glanced up at the charm over the mantle. The changeable light from the flames gilded and then hid the beads. Hospitality. The tea was warm and sweet and soothing, the cat purred on my lap, and a woman looked at me fondly. Something in me eased another notch. Petting the cat makes you feel better, Fennel asserted smugly.

The cat stood, hind legs on my lap, front paws on the table, and surveyed the food. A plucky tail waved in my face. “Fennel! Shame on you, stop that. Come here.” Jinna leaned across the table to scoop the cat from my lap. She picked up the conversation as she did so. “Yes, Hap’s told me of his ambitions, it’s a fine thing to see a young man with dreams and hopes.” “He’s a good boy,” I fervently agreed with her. “And he deserves a good chance at making something of himself. I’d do anything for him.” Fennel now stood on Jinna’s lap and stared at me across the table. She likes me better than you. He stoke a piece of fish from the edge of her plate. Do all cats speak so rudely to strangers? I rebuked him. He leaned back to bump his head possessively against Jinna’s chest. His yellow-eyed stare was daunting. All cats talk however they want. To whomever they want. But only a rude human speaks out is turn. Be quiet. I told you. She likes me better than you. He twisted his head to look up at Jinna’s face. More fish? “That’s plain,” she agreed. I tried to remember what I said to her as I watched her give the cat a bit I’d fish at the edge of the table.

The Revenant I am the dog you put to sleep, as you like to call the needle of oblivion, come back to tell you this simple thing; I never liked you-not one bit. When I licked your face, I thought of biting off your nose. When I watched you toweling yourself dry, I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap. I resented the way you moved, your lack of animal grace, the way you would sit in a chair to eat, a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand. I would have run away, but I was too weak, a trick you taught me while I was learning to sit and heel, and-greatest of insults-shake hands without a hand. I admit the sight of the leash would excite me but only because it meant I was about to smell things you had never touched. You do no want to believe this, but I have no reason to lie. I hated the car, the rubber toys, disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives. The jingling of my tags drove me mad. You always scratched me in the wrong place. All I ever wanted from you was food and fresh water in my metal bowls. While you slept, I watched you breathe as the moon rose in the sky. It took all of my strength not to raise my head and howl. Now I am free of the collar, the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater; the absurdity of your lawn, and that is all you need to know about this place except what you already supposed and are glad it did not happen sooner- that everyone here can read and write, the dogs in poetry, the cats and all the others in prose.

The only people who would try to assault someone with this many spirits hanging around them is either a human without enough mana to see spirits or someone with a death wish.

The cat, irked by her restlessness and inattention, abandoned her lap. He didn’t like it when she went on the computer and used her fingers to type and scroll instead of to scratch his head. It was a waste of two perfectly good hands as far as he was concerned, and so he went in search of Oliver. She

Try to think of it this way,” he began. “You should feel very lucky. StarClan has given you the chance to choose your own destiny: to be a warrior, a mate, a mother—all the things that you were denied as Cinderpelt.” “But is it a real choice?” Cinderheart asked miserably. “What about my duty to my Clan?” “There are many ways to fulfill your duty,” Jayfeather murmured. Cinderheart turned to him; he could feel the force of her gaze. “It’s true, I’m lucky to be here at all!” she burst out. “I know what a debt I owe to my ancestors. But I’m so confused. . . . I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” “What do you want?” Jayfeather asked quietly. He felt a small start of surprise from Cinderheart, as if no cat had ever asked her that before. “I wanted Lionblaze,” she whispered. “But I can’t have him.” “Oh? Really?” Great StarClan, mouse-brain, he’s been padding after you for moons! “Why not?” “Because of his destiny,” Cinderheart replied. Jayfeather gave an awkward wriggle; he wasn’t comfortable discussing another cat’s relationship problems. But he remembered Half Moon, and felt again the piercing pain he had suffered when he realized that he couldn’t stay with her in her long-ago Tribe. “You have a destiny, too,” he mewed gently. “But that isn’t the whole of who you are. You can still shape your own life.” Cinderheart was silent for a long time; Jayfeather could sense a tiny seed of hope stirring inside her. “You have a chance to be happy,” he prompted, “and to make Lionblaze happy, too. Don’t throw that away because you spent too long trying to figure out the right thing to do.” “Thank you, Jayfeather,” Cinderheart responded with a long sigh. Together they sat on the bank overlooking the lake; Jayfeather could hear the soft lapping of the water on the pebbly shore. For a few moments he and Cinderheart seemed to be wrapped in a cocoon of peace. It can’t last, Jayfeather thought. Not in these turbulent times. But I’m glad of it now, that’s for sure.

It’s like God opened up His hands and dropped that fine piece of blessing in my lap Himself. “Do you play, boy?

I found my truck where I had left it, parked with the rear against a juniper. Water in the jugs had frozen. A mouse trap in the back still hadn’t caught the mouse who was living in my wool socks and eating holes in my plastic bags. I drove north. By the time the Milky Way was out I had reached the foot of the Book Cliffs and the remains of Thompson, Utah. The train comes through the town and was heading out for Christmas. I was an hour late. The train is customarily two hours late. I still had time to set pennies on the tracks. This was the only time I had seen another customer in the Silver Grill Cafe. Through the window he sat at one end of the counter gesturing toward the gray-haired woman who runs the place, sitting at the other end. I once ordered a cinnamon roll in there, and she peeled open a box she had gone all the way to Moab City Market a couple days earlier to purchase. By telling me this, she was emphasizing the fact that the cinnamon rolls were fresh. She put it in the microwave for me. Gave me an extra pat of butter, the kind with foil around it. I spent an hour once just up the street talking to the post mistress and her cat. I checked the WANTED bulletins, then ran when the train came through. If you are not standing at the tracks in Thompson, the Amtrak will not stop. They call it a whistle stop. One of the few left in the country. The gray-haired woman shut down the cafe, clicked off the front lights. Electricity was buzzing out of the single street light, so I opened the truck door and turned on the tape deck. After a while I shut it off because my battery has never proved itself to be resilient. A couple of freight trains tore through with the impact of sudden cataclysm, flattening my pennies. Then the buzzing of the street light. Then the coyotes. They were yelping and howling up Sego Canyon, where there are pre-Anasazi paintings on the walls—big, round eyes, huge and red, looking over the canyon. The train was three hours late. I stood nearly on the tracks so they couldn’t miss me with that blinding, drunken light. The conductor threw open the steel door. “Shoot,” he yelled. “It’s dark out here!” I dove through and tackled him with my backpacks, flashing a ticket in his face. He quickly announced that I had too many pieces, but the train was already moving. I looked back out. Utah was black. He pulled the door closed and the train began to rock along the tracks. When I came down the aisle I saw a few passengers who were still awake, on their way to San Francisco or Las Vegas. Overhead lights were trained on paperbacks in their laps. They were staring out their windows into absolute darkness. I knew what they were thinking; there is nothing out there.

She brings her hands together on her lap, settling in for another lesson. “Most people go through what we refer to as ‘the seven levels of anger’—stress, anxiety, agitation, irritation, frustration, anger, rage. And at the lower end of that scale, a measure of self-control can usually be applied, which means the igniting issue often gets solved. The problem is, narcissists don’t go through the seven levels like most people. The tiniest slight sends them straight to the top of the scale. To a narcissist, rage is a perfectly appropriate response to their ego being threatened, because channeling that rage restores their feelings of superiority.

He slurped unashamed like a cow in a lake, as though her quim were the most ambrosial trough of sauterne imaginable. Was this some strange Indian thing? It was unbelievably shameful yet arousing to have his beautiful pointed nose buried in her sex, lapping away like a mountain cat.

Since my earliest memories (I was maybe four or five years old), I’ve felt drawn to animals by some unexplained force. At holiday gatherings, my parents’ dinner parties, or days around town—especially in crowds—I could be found somewhere out of the way, comfortably sitting alone on the ground with a cat in my lap or dog close at hand. Sometimes I’d talk to them, other times not. I was simply content to be with them in silence and escape all the pressure of being with people—words freely spoken with so much unsaid, unspoken meanings, hidden agendas. With animals, I felt at home. Their messages were clear and true. What mattered in those moments was nothing more than our relationship.

The sound of Alex revving his motorcycle brings my attention back to him. “Don’t be afraid of what they think.” I take in the sight of him, from his ripped jeans and leather jacket to the red and black bandana he just tied on top of his head. His gang colors. I should be terrified. Then I remember how he was with Shelley yesterday. To hell with it. I shift my book bag around to my back and straddle his motorcycle. “Hold on tight,” he says, pulling my hands around his waist. The simple feel of his strong hands resting on top of mine is intensely intimate. I wonder if he’s feeling these emotions, too, but dismiss the thought. Alex Fuentes is a hard guy. Experienced. The mere touch of hands isn’t going to make his stomach flutter. He deliberately brushes the tips of his fingers over mine before reaching for the handlebars. Oh. My. God. What am I getting myself into? As we speed away from the school parking lot, I grab Alex’s rock-hard abs tighter. The sped of the motorcycle scares me. I feel light-headed, like I’m riding a roller coaster with no lap bar. The motorcycle stops at a red light. I lean back. I hear him chuckle when he guns the engine once more as the light turns green. I clutch his waist and bury my face in his back. When he finally stops and puts the kickstand down, I survey my surroundings. I’ve never been on his street. The homes are so…small. Most are one level. A cat can’t fit in the space between them. As hard as I try to fight it, sorrow settles in the pit of my stomach. My house is at least seven, maybe even eight or nine times Alex’s home’s size. I know this side of town is poor, but… “This was a mistake,” Alex says. “I’ll take you home.” “Why?” “Among other things, the look of disgust on your face.” “I’m not disgusted. I guess I feel sorry--” “Don’t ever pity me,” he warns. “I’m poor, not homeless.” “Then are you going to invite me in? The guys across the street are gawking at the white girl.” “Actually, around here you’re a ‘snow girl.’” “I hate snow,” I say. His lips quirk up into a grin. “Not for the weather, querida. For your snow-white skin. Just follow me and don’t stare at the neighbors, even if they stare at you.

Audrey,” Beatrix implored, “do let me sit next to Lord Annandale.” As if it were some coveted privilege. “If you insist.” Audrey leaped from the settee as if she had been launched by a spring mechanism. Before Beatrix took her place, she bent to rummage beneath the settee. Dragging out a drowsing gray cat, she settled it on Annandale’s lap. “Here you are. Nothing warms you faster than a cat in your lap. Her name is Lucky. She’ll purr if you pet her.” The old man regarded it without expression. And to Christopher’s astonishment, the old man began to stroke the sleek gray fur. “This cat is missing a leg,” he remarked to Beatrix. “Yes, I would have named her Nelson, after the one-armed admiral, but she’s female. She belonged to the cheesemaker until her foot was caught in a trap.” “Why did you name her Lucky?” Annandale asked. “I hoped it would change her fortunes.” “And did it?” “Well, she’s sitting in the lap of an earl, isn’t she?” Beatrix pointed out, and Annandale laughed outright. He touched the cat’s remaining paw. “She is fortunate to have been able to adapt.” “She was determined,” Beatrix said. “You should have seen the poor thing, not long after the amputation. She kept trying to walk on the missing leg, or jump down from a chair, and she would stumble and lose her balance. But one day, she woke up and seemed to have accepted the fact that the leg was gone for good. And she became nearly as agile as before.” She added significantly, “The trick was forgetting about what she had lost…and learning to go on with what she had left.” Annandale gave her a fascinated stare, his lips curving. “What a clever young woman you are.

Do not call me that. And yes, Charlotte, Taylor is fully aware that we’ve been intimate. And she couldn’t care less. You don’t threaten her, not in the least.” “I don’t?” She turned slowly, edging her way toward Baldwin. He stood in the middle of the room, shaking his head as he watched her approach. An overgrown feral cat caught in a housecat’s body, that was Charlotte on the prowl. She’d just as soon tear out your throat as curl up in your lap.

That’s all right, pay no attention to me, just make yourself at home,” I tell the self-propelled whoopee cushion, then audit the itemized receipt with a sinking heart. Judging from the bottom line, cats fall somewhere between a new Porsche and a used Lamborghini in running costs, and I’ve got a nasty suspicion that I’m not going to be able to expense this claim. I mean, I might be able to concoct an experimental protocol that involves hosting one all-black specimen of Felis catus in the lap of luxury before sacrificing it on a summoning grid—but I suspect that would annoy Trish, and one should always avoid pissing off the departmental secretary.

Immediately a large striped cat with no tail sauntered inside the office and surveyed the visitors with a speculative gaze. "Chopper," Cannon said in a warning tone that would have caused any other creature to slink into the nearest corner. Instead, Chopper flicked him a rebellious glance and jumped straight into Victoria's lap. Automatically Victoria handed her half-filled mug to Grant as the cat settled into a massive furry heap over her thighs. Muttering an apology, Cannon began to remove the creature, but Victoria shook her head with a smile. "It's all right," she said. "I like animals." Cannon's eyes glimmered with an answering smile. "Well, now you've met the real head of Bow Street," he remarked, indicating the smug feline, and returned to his chair.

Suddenly ravenous, April reached for a piece of bread and spared no caution in slathering it with a thick coat of butter. She’d just proved Luc’s theory, that Americans loved their snacking, but April didn’t much care. It was worth it. Along with her memories of every café, every midnight dinner, the thousands of glasses of wine, April remembered the butter. It was creamier in Paris, saltier. “Tell me more about the grand-mère,” April said and sat on her hands so she couldn’t physically take another bite. The thought of leaning over and lapping her baguette and beurre cat-style briefly occurred to her.

Most Melokais ruled for a decade, Ramya had ruled now for two years longer than most. Your time is up! She was certain this was the cats’ message. They had been frantic all morning. Their mewing, trilling, yowling sounded different. Urgent, worried. They had scuttled about under her feet as she limbered through her daylight dances, slapped paws at the goat’s milk in her washtub rather than lapping at it, and as she had dressed, they clawed at her fur cloak, looking up at her with knowing marble eyes. When she had left her chambers to head to the busy dining hall, a swarm of squalling, hissing fur had trailed behind.

back in the seventies four women were killed. Librarians.... The odd message arrived in Dougal Lachlan’s Inbox on the last Friday in May, channeled through his website into a special folder he used for fan mail. He was slouched into the sofa in his East Village apartment, going through line-edits on his latest true crime manuscript. His cat Borden, having been denied her favorite perch—the one on his lap—was curled up on the cushion beside him. Normally

My hands are now paws, and I have no grip to speak of. That’s why cats have to lap milk out of a bowl for refreshment. You don’t think a feline of any kind would want to pop open a can if they could? ‘Course they would. We’re just limited in our options.

The airlines have to let crazy people carry their animals on their laps. The government says so (...) You just call the airline people and tell them you need to bring your 'comfort animal' (...) It can be a dog, a monkey, a rabbit, but no way can it be a cat. The government doesn't consider a cat as comforting anybody

You’ve always kept your guard up around me,” Ryan said without any inflection in his voice. “And I never noticed.” James winced. “I had to. Or I’d be molesting you at every turn.” Ryan was silent, his warm breath brushing James’s ear. God. When Ryan was so close, all he wanted was to crawl into Ryan’s lap, tear their clothes off and— Fuck, he must get a grip. He wasn’t drunk now. He had no excuse now. “Jamie,” Ryan said. “I don’t give a shit. Molest me—I don’t fucking care. I’d take that over you being constantly on guard around me.” A short laugh left James’s lips. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you have no idea what you’re talking about.” It was Ryan’s turn to laugh. “No idea? Please. I’m not the one who’s kissed three people in my life.” “You still don’t get it.” “I do, you tosser.” With a frustrated sigh, James turned his head and slammed their lips together. It was meant to be a lesson for Ryan, but he wasn’t prepared for how much it would shake him. A broken, desperate moan tore out of his throat and he plunged his tongue into Ryan’s mouth, found Ryan’s tongue and sucked on it, greedy, hungry, so hungry. It felt like he’d been thirsty for centuries, for eons, and God, God— He whimpered, sucking Ryan’s tongue deeper into his mouth, shaking with want—literally shaking. When Ryan’s arms wrapped tightly around him, Jamie completely lost it, all but crawling into Ryan’s lap and rubbing against him like a horny cat. A small, distant part of him was horrified— Ryan must be disgusted—but he couldn’t stop. He needed this, needed him; he’d been starved for him for years and years and years. It hurt. It actually hurt, his balls aching and painful, his cock so stiff he couldn’t think straight, all the years of repressed desire finally out, like a dam broken, unleashed and unstoppable. A half-moan, half-sob of frustration broke from him as he willed himself to stop and breathe. He was shaking in Ryan’s arms, literally shaking, unable to calm down. He wanted. God, he wanted. “Jesus, Jamie,” Ryan said, holding him close with one arm while the other— The other hand pressed between James’s legs. James flinched with his entire body, his glazed eyes going wide as he tried to focus them on Ryan’s face. “What are you doing—

Like many men, I am tormented by the delusion that for every attractive woman I see there is some hypothetical sequence of events that will lead to me having sex with her, and end up damning myself a coward and a failure the 99.999907 percent of the time this fails to happen. Except how many times have I ever actually gone to a party or a bar and ended up getting the number of/making out with/going home with someone I met there? Even on the rare occasions when this has happened, there have been moments when it's occurred to me that it's three a.m., and I'm tired, and this is all getting to be rather a lot of work, and in truth I might've been happier watching a movie with a cat on my lap. It's the tantalizing possibility of sex - reinforced, like an addiction to the nickel slots, by the rare, sporadic payoff - that gives life its luster.

linoleum at the base of the refrigerator. The pressure-fit plastic lid, which hadn’t withstood the pressure of impact, had rolled under parrot Bella’s cage. With hearing finely tuned to recognize the distinctive characteristics of tuna-packed-in-oil slopping across the floor, Lucy had materialized to lap up the chemical spill. “How did you get in here with the door closed?” Linda said to her. “I guess I let her in before I went outdoors.” It was my latest ploy to get Lucy to like me. Snoozing under the dining room table was her latest gesture of defiance toward house rules, and I was helping her get away with it. “She doesn’t even look at the birds.

Cat was no novice, but the term “sexual satisfaction” didn’t even come close to what Wilson McKay had done to her. It was magnificent. It was mind-bending. It was addictive. Wilson was almost blind with exhaustion, but he’d never felt better in his life. Just at the point of falling asleep, he felt Cat’s backside snuggling closer into his lap. “Uh…Wilson?” “Hmmm?” “Could we do that again?” He laughed out loud. It started like a rumble down deep in his belly and came up his throat in husky ripples, until the sound, like a blowout, burst behind Cat’s head. His laughter was infectious. A little embarrassed, she frowned, but when he buried his face against the back of her neck and kept laughing, she rolled out from beneath his grasp and punched him on the shoulder. Wilson had never, in his entire life as an adult, experienced this much passion and fun at the same time. He laughed until his belly hurt, and when he tried to pull her back down to him, she wouldn’t relent. “It wasn’t that funny,” Cat muttered. “On the contrary,” Wilson said. “You just weren’t looking at the request from my point of view. I was just lying there thinking that I’d never felt so used up and satisfied in my life, and then you’re asking about a repeat performance.

They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk

Stepmother taps her chin and frowns at Moody’s dress. “She needs some pin tucks in the skirt to give it more lift. And put some padding into the bodice to fill out her bosom-” “Motherrr!” Moody whines. “What? It’s no secret you’re flat as a floor.” Loony cackles while Moody throws a murderous look. “At least my chest doesn’t fall on my lap when I sit down.” Loony frowns. “Are you calling me fat?” “Well, if the shoe fits-” “Come, come, girls,” Stepmother says. I’m glad she stopped them. I’ve seen my stepsisters fight before and it’s like cats, all clawing and hissing. I don’t care if they go to the ball with red scratches on their faces but they could ruin Moody’s gown. “You

Lang glanced over to where Fafhrd lay sprawled over Zig´s lap."Apparently she needs a cat fix.

Though Emily is a bit of a cat, and cats, I always think, only jump into your lap to check if you are cold enough, yet, to eat. Sometimes I

With his hand on the doorknob, Tengo turned around one last time and was shocked to see a single tear escaping his father’s eye. It shone a dull silver color under the ceiling’s fluorescent light. The tear crept slowly down his cheek and fell onto his lap.

Andrew Vachss, the best noir-ey writer in the history of the genre, called cats the lap dancers of the animal world. Give them attention, they’re there. Stop, they’re outta there.

The Mouse On The Bar Room Floor Some Guinness was spilt on the bar room floor When the pub was shut for the night. Out of his hole crept a wee brown mouse And, in the pale moonlight, He lapped up the frothy brew from the floor, Then back on his haunches he sat. And all night long you could hear him roar, ‘Bring on the goddamn cat!’ —An Irish Tall Tale

I always worried that you would find another man to take better care of you. You’re a good-looking woman and I wouldn’t have blamed you. The wife of a SEAL is not an easy job.” The quiet words held brutal honesty. “I wouldn’t have cheated on you. I had opportunities definitely, but that’s not the kind of person I am.” Harper smiled and looked down at his lap. “What?” she asked. His hard silver-grey eyes flicked up to her face, seeming to glow. “Is it wrong that I like knowing men wanted you?” Cat shook her head, laughing. “Really? I profess my commitment to our marriage and you get jacked knowing men were after me?” Harper made a face, looking sheepish. “What can I say? You’ve always turned me on but there’s something about having what another man wants that satisfies the competitive caveman in me.” By the pleasure curling in her stomach it apparently satisfied something in her as well. The desire she had banked all day returned. Cat played with her half empty water glass, swirling the base in the moisture on the table. “It always made me excited when I saw women looking at you as well,” she admitted. “But I worried when you weren’t around.” Harper narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, invading her personal space. “I never cheated. Ever. Were there opportunities? Of course. But I was never tempted. Most of the women that hit on me I couldn’t even stand to listen to.” Some knot of tangled emotion eased in her chest. Harper was a virile man. He had a healthy sex drive. When they’d been together they’d loved almost every day. But in the back of her mind had been the fear that he’d sated those drives with someone else. Tears smarted her eyes as the relief flowed through her. She looked down at her plate, unwilling to let him see. Hard fingers tilted her face up. Anger sparked in his silver eyes. “I would never cheat on you. I take my marriage vows seriously. I always have.” She nodded and a tear dripped down her cheek. “I know you have but a year and a half is a really long time. Longer than any of your deployments. I guess I kind of expected…well, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.” “But I would have blamed me and that’s not something I need on my conscience, not along with everything else,” he told her firmly. “Besides, I’ve never been drawn to anyone else since I met you. Did I tell you you look beautiful today? Because you do.” With

It had been a long time since her body had felt this way. As she stepped under the water and lathered she took note of all the sensitive places. The stubble on his jaw had chafed her chin and cheeks, his hands had bruised her hips a bit. But it was all done in the heat of passion and love. She loved feeling like this. The other half of her heart was sleeping out there on the bed. As she left the bathroom she took care to move quietly when she slipped between the sheets. It was still fairly early for her, but what the hell. It had been such a long time since she’d had the chance to sleep with her husband. Harper didn’t move. Feeling daring, Cat backed her ass into the curve of his lap. Immediately his heavy arm wrapped around her hips and pulled her back into him. Sighing, she savored the feel of his heat as long as she could before she let sleep overcome her.

Cat sat in a rocking recliner, her foot pushing the chair into motion steadily. She looked up when he came down the stairs but didn’t say anything. Harper felt like a royal ass when he saw her tear-stained cheeks and the tissues clutched in her hand. Cat was a strong woman. It took a lot to see her cry. The fact that she was crying now made him feel like the lowest kind of scum. Crossing the room, he knelt down in front of her, stopping the chair. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond to you. I’m kind of in shock. When I fell in love with you I just always thought it was forever. Even though my lifestyle didn’t create stability, you did, Cat. You were always my stability. Walking away was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But I did it in the hopes that I could make myself better. It’s not like a damned driving test where if I mark a wrong answer I get to take the test over again. I’m a trained killer. If I had screwed up in our house you or the kids were going to pay for it, possibly with your lives. I couldn’t chance that.” Fresh tears rolled down her face and her expression crumpled. “I know. I knew that was why you left. Or at least that was what I had hoped. But it’s been eighteen damn months—a year and a half—with you not letting us have any contact. If you had talked to us, or wrote…just something to let us know that we weren’t all alone.” Cat sobbed and it broke his heart. Pulling her into his arms then down onto his lap, he held her as she let all her emotions out. Tears choked his own throat as he cradled her to him. “If I had called I would not have been able to stay away.” And that was the gist of his angst. God, yes, he wanted to be with them, but he was willing to give up his own happiness if it kept them safe. Cat’s arms wrapped around his neck and she looked up at him. “I have always had more faith in you than you have yourself. Always.” Nuzzling his face into her damp hair, he nodded. “I know that. Without a doubt. And whether you were with me or not your faith kept me going.” Relaxing into his hold, Cat’s tears began to slow. “I love you, Cat.” Her arms tightened around his neck till he thought something was going to pop. “I love you too, damn it.

Five things I could see. The window had six panes. The curtains were blue. The rug was thin and old. Mósí was looking at me like I was crazy. My sheet had flowers. Four things I could feel. My pajamas were soft and warm. The floor was cold. I plopped down beside Mósí and stroked his soft fur. He headbutted me and his nose was a little wet, but when I kissed him and he rubbed my chin and I kissed him again, my heart started to feel a little better. Three things I could hear. Mósí purring, really loud. That made me smile, and I kissed him again, and he crawled up in my lap and I hugged him. His purr was so loud I couldn’t really hear anything else, but I guess silence is a thing. And when I listened very, very hard, I could hear the sea. Two things I could smell. I breathed in and tried to name it, like I was one of my characters. It smelled like dampness and stone. And Mósí, who always smells clean and sweet and nice. I kissed him again, closing my eyes, and felt tears stinging my eyelids. I love him so much. He is the best cat ever in the world. I was supposed to think of one thing I could taste, but I didn’t want to get up, and anyway my heart felt better. My dad did a good thing with Mósí. My cat doesn’t care what happened to me, what I did. He just wants me to love him.

It wasn't me. Mrs Queenie Bligh, she wasn't even there. This woman was a beauty -- he couldn't get enough of her. He liked the downy softness of the blonde hairs on her legs. Her nipples were the pinkest he'd ever seen. Her throat -- he just had to kiss her throat. This woman was as sexy as any starlet on a silver screen. The zebra of their legs twined and untwined together on the bed. Her hands, pale as a ghost's, caressed every part of his nut-brown skin. She was so desirable he polished her with hot breath -- his tongue lapping between her legs like a cat with cream. It wasn't me. This woman watching his buttocks rise and fall sucked at every finger on his hand. She clawed his back and cried out until his mouth lowering down filled hers with his eager tongue. It wasn't me. This woman panted and thrust and bit. And when he rolled her over she yelped wickedly into the pillow. Mrs Queenie Bligh would never do such a thing. That one, Mrs Bligh, usually worked out what she could make for dinner during sexual relations with her husband. But this woman, if it hadn't been for the blackout, could have lit up London.

Garrance winks as Juju jumps onto my lap. "It appears that Juju likes you too." Feeling out of sorts, I stroke the cat's head, look down at him. He's weighing my thighs down, and I like the way it feels, all warm. I also love his loud purrs. He's nothing like a rat. "The big lug is kind of growing on me," I say, stroking his chin, and Garrance grins.

The second I sit down at the table, Juju jumps in my lap, purrs. Charles grimaces. "The gros con actually likes you." "We had a rough start, but we're friends now," I say as Charles reaches out to pet Juju's head. Juju hisses and I say Good kitty in my head. "And he clearly hates you." I whisper to Juju, "Did you just call him a gros con too? I agree.

That’s the thing about books: I’ve read so many I’m hardly ever surprised by a plot point, but I don’t think surprise is anywhere near the greatest gift a book can give. I can stand on the battlefield with Feynor. I can smell death itself in the air, but I know no matter how bleak the story gets, morning always arrives. A corner is always turned, and even if love has been bent and broken and bruised along the way, it floods the sky like the brightest sunrise and heals everything in the end. You can trust the love you find in books. You can count on it, the same way you can count on your cat to jump in your lap and purr the afternoon away whenever you sit down to read.

I want a house in the country. Just a cottage, with a fence and a cat to sit in my lap and a dog to sleep at my feet. A spot of earth for a graden with flowers as well as vegetables, food on the table, and a little leisure time in which to read the books I've not had time to read or just sit... in the sunshine.

You made me see you as a friend, and then you walk out of that shop today as regal as you please and you nearly get yourself killed. If you think I signed up for this job so that I could lose a friend, you're wrong." His hand fell to his lap and he pinned her with his gaze. There was an intensity in his eyes that made something in her ache. "I could have been too slow. Or I could have bee nat the wrong angle, or-" "Or you could have died. And if you hadn't made me eat breakfast, or laugh at your jokes, or listen to stories about your cat, I might have been able to survive that.

There’s a big tuxedo cat who probably hates the music lying on my lap. He’s basically on top of me all day when I’m working.

Once there lived a Saint. He used to meditate for long hours, every day, and through his dedication, he had achieved great powers - magical powers. Although the talks of magical powers may seem very unscientific to a software engineer like you, these fictions are required by a psychologist to explain tough subjects. Take it as how we assume a principal amount as 100 in mathematics. Understand without scepticism what the story unfolds to you. When the Saint used to meditate, a mouse used to sit in his lap. The tiny animal wouldn’t disturb him but would accompany him.  Slowly over the period of months, the Saint grew fond of that mouse. It became his companion. One day a cat came when the Saint was meditating. The cat threatened to kill and eat that mouse. Hearing that, the Saint was annoyed, and he used his magical powers to turn the mouse into a bigger cat.  Everything went fine for a while. That bigger cat played around the Saint, and no animal tried to cross its path. But one day, a wild dog came and challenged this cat. The Saint again used his magical powers to convert the Cat into a Dog. Things went well for a while until the Saint heard the roar of a Lion nearby one day. Without wasting a second, the Saint turned his dog to a lion by magic. But this time, as soon as the Dog turned, it attacked the Saint. This Lion was the Ego.

By the next station, Leo was left with a lapful of shiny foil paper, gimcrack toys, and zero intact crackers. He had unraveled his mystery and was left with nothing but trash.

He scoops up the gigantic cat and rests it on his lap. "This is Dick. I call him that because it was the only way I could make sure I got some.

On another night – a warmer night; or if the fire had not gone out; or if the cat had been sitting on her lap – habit alone might have been enough to keep her going. But this night was cold and this night was dark, and the cat was outside killing small things.

On the stone tower a stork unwatchful sleeps - On the warm mat a cat contented sighs. In moonlit caves, the silvery water laps - And red flags flutter against sunset skies.

Last year a woman decided she wanted a picture of her cat sitting on Santa’s lap, so she smuggled it into Macy’s in a duffel bag. The cat sat on Santa’s lap for five seconds before it shot out the door, and it took six elves forty-five minutes before they found it in the kitchen of the employee cafeteria.

I can’t look. I lied. I’m not a tough girl. I’m a lap cat who likes to take sun naps. I certainly don’t live for danger. I set the poor thing down on the sand. Hopefully, she’ll run for cover.