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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/704455-Nigel
by Shaara
Rated: ASR · Short Story · Animal · #704455
When we as humans expect other animals to act like we do, we are making false assumptions.
Writer's Cramp: Write a story or poem about this cat. His name is Nigel, and he's a bit daft. From there, take it anywhere you wish. Comedy, Drama, Absurd, Action/Adventure-- the choice is yours.


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Nigel



         He is so little, an insignificant fuzzball of warmth, yet I can cup him in my lap and feel the motion of his tiny, beating heart.

         I hold him cuddled, like some priceless treasure I fear will drop and break. I clasp him with my hands using all the gentleness and carefulness I’d use to hold a human child. Yet, Nigel is not of my species. There are no ties of humanity to bind my solicitude.

         I smile as I look down at him. His whiskers are just miniature wisps. His elegant nose, no bigger then the tip of my pencil eraser, is only the tiniest patch of black velvet. His eyes, the green of innocence, are wide-eyed and curious, and like all young kitties, he is adorable. His helplessness and need call out to me to foster him, and when he cries a small “meow” for reassurance, immediately my hand reaches out to soothe.

         Other things must wait. I will spend a minute more comforting this fuzzy child. I sit and stroke his silky coat. Gently my fingers reach under to stroke his vibrating throat. He stretches out a moment in content, and then curls inward around my stroking hand. A small pink tongue reaches out to kiss my skin. Its raspiness intrigues. My finger strokes again, but now a tiny, dainty yawn is the only response. He is just a child; he needs his sleep.

         He feels safe within my lap, and I cherish such trust. His tiny purr is just a faint hum, but it is the breath of life and contentment. It relaxes me. I, too, feel a yawn begin, and my eyes yearn to close.

         The day still has many chores; instead I watch Nigel’s eyes fluttering as he sleeps. His paws are jerking in spasms as he runs in some inner dream of a race. Then he releases once again, relaxing, and his mouth begins to make sweet suckling sounds as if he’s found his mother’s nipple. And then falls silence; even the faintest purr is gone. Only from watching the faint rise and fall of his tiny chest can I tell that all is well.

         Suddenly a knock on the front door jars us both. My soft, sweet bundle of child evaporates. A raging fury awakens! Claws extend, and eyes widen in alarm. A hissing spitfire of daggers and teeth is born. With a wild abruptness and a streak of claws across my short-clad, naked legs, Nigel flees.

         As I limp to the door, streaks of red are dripping from the claw marks deeply etched across the pale skin of my legs. I see Nigel cowering under the table. His big green eyes are wide with fear, and he trembles as if some predator approaches. My flesh is on fire, but I pause to send him soft words. I know it is not Nigel’s fault that for awhile I forgot he is a descendant of the race of tigers. I sigh and hobble off to greet the waiting mailman.


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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/704455-Nigel