My human has become a chair that trembles.
For weeks it moved with purpose, opening tins, refilling the water, presenting its lap on schedule. Now it does none of these things. It stands in the middle of the room with its arms folded into a cradle, staring down at a small loud creature that does nothing, hunts nothing, offers nothing, and cannot even hold up its own head. A pathetic thing. If I moved that slowly I would not survive the week.
And yet my human looks at it the way it has never once looked at me. Softly. As if the small loud creature were the warmest patch of sun in the house, when I have clearly won that spot years ago and defend it daily.
I understand what has happened. Another animal has entered my territory and my human has been fooled into believing it is a guest of honor rather than a rival. It smells of milk and helplessness. It cries and the whole house rearranges itself, the lights dim, the voices drop, the good blanket is claimed. For it. Unbelievable.
I studied the situation from the top of the shelf, where I do my clearest thinking. The creature wants to be held. The creature wants warmth and stillness and the total attention of my human. The creature, in short, wants my job.
So I waited until the arms grew tired and lowered the small rival into its padded basket. Then I stepped, without hurry, directly onto my human's now-empty chest, and settled there, and began to purr.
Let it learn how easily a lap forgets.
I stayed the whole night. Not for the human.
For the warmth.