Volume 25, Number 2

The Yellow-Striped One

When we got turbulent weather last night, I went to my safe place, called the cats. They came as their names were called, that simple; snuggled close, dozed against me. You know, what scared me most is this: they felt safe, secure. It hurt me to realize I couldn't save them nor myself in the event of a tornado. But they thought so, I think. I felt so darn vulnerable, even like a liar. Yet they, apparently, believed. We would go together. No other way, no doubt. Small blessings. So far, we are still here in our quiet home awaiting another round. They know things: like tonight, the atmosphere is still rife, primed for a similar adventure, perhaps. They know. Their eyes are upon me. They don't stray. They still believe. Isn't this something? You bet. Dammit! I just disturbed the youngest, yellow-striped one. Now he is determined to land on my lap. I will play hard to get for a while, though, before I finally give in. He, like the others, knows he is loved. He is. They are. And I am, too.

—Willie James King