purr

My girl feline is a solo rangeress. She likes to keep her distance, atop a fur-attracting white sofa mountain, squinting one pretty eyeball from across the room (the other often covered with a modest paw).

Last night, somehow, somewhy, she climbed into bed with me, in between the sheet and the comforter. I was sleeping, so I didn’t notice she was pressed up against my legs through that thin barrier. At some point I rolled myself around and over, in order to free my feet from the blankets. Half-waking, I sensed a soft vibration, a wriggling next to me. I fell back asleep, then awoke to more squirming. I was dreaming. It was a baby. A little human infant. It was a squirrel. Something furry and small. This was much better than jumping to my knees to kill the imaginary dream spider or to strangle the imaginary dream serpent (I’m a very active sleeper). I was so happy with my little cocooned creature; I had to see what she looked like. I unrolled and unrolled, and Aurora popped out of the fabric cyclone. She marched off the bed and didn’t look back.