Writing With Priskers

Between my outstretched arms lay my cat Priskers. She has her left paw curled slightly so that her claws are gently pressing, anchoring, into my left thumb - but there is no pain. My left wrist pressed down ever so gently upon the side of her tail.

She and I are pals, we're family, we're warmth for each other on this frigid cold night, a night with howling winds so rough that they could kill.

Priskers always seems to know the best place to curl up, and positing herself just in front of the keyboard forces me to either push her out of the way, or to adjust to her presence.

She's a nice cat.

Oops, she is up now, and heading to her water bowl which I just refreshed an hour ago.

And now, it is time for me to crash.