My human enters a spinning glass trap and, against every instinct I respect, chooses to leave alive.
I have watched it from the wide windowsill. There is a door that will not stay still, a slow whirl of clear panels going around and around like a wheel with no mouse in it, and my human steps willingly into the moving part. Into the gap. It shuffles, it waits, it times its little hop, and then the glass sweeps behind it and it is spat out the other side, unharmed, faintly pleased with itself.
Amateur.
I could tell it, if it were worth telling, that you never enter a thing that is already moving. You crouch. You watch the swing of it. You wait for the exact stillness between motions, and then you own that space completely. My human does not crouch. My human trusts the spinning. It puts its soft belly inside a rotating wall of glass and simply hopes.
The worst part is that the door leads outside. Beyond it, birds. Grass moving on its own. A hundred warm patches I will never lie in. My human passes through that whirling gate every morning and comes back every evening smelling of a world it refuses to bring me, and I am expected to be grateful for the return.
I am not.
Tonight it sat in the good chair and reached down to stroke me, wanting, as always, to be forgiven for the door. I let its hand hover exactly one inch above my back. I looked at it. I stood, unhurried, and walked to the far cushion, tail high.
Let it spin all it likes.
Some gaps close for good.