a kitten - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
If my every good memory were to leap from my head and fuse with divine magic, it would become a kitten. It would dance and play, seek sunshine and snuggles. Perhaps this sense of purity, this sense of the inner kitten, is my best self emerging from the rest.
The kitten is a new spark of life in softest fur. Her eyes tell of pure energy tempered by an undercurrent of nervousness. She leaps with the sudden pounce of a tiger, gaining confidence and accuracy. It won't be long before she's pure cat, independent and sassy, the queen of her human subjects. Not yet though, not yet. She's still a little girl trying on mama's shoes, sitting to lick herself like she's a year old already, loosing her balance and trying to look like she meant to do it.
What are we doing today? Great question! Well, we could talk about that family tension you’re having right now, but that might take a while and we have so much to cover. We’re going to talk mostly, but I need a couple of props. Hang on...Do you see the kitten in my hands? Say hello to Kitty. She’s still so small isn’t she, I only just got her. Nine weeks old is all. Listen, you can hear her little meow, so newborn, right? I love the way she feels, that downy tabby fur, softer than any commercial toy. I’ll bring her closer so you can see her eyes, bluer than glacier water aren't they. If you look closer still you can see the faint brighter stripes in her irises, the remind me of spring grass. And her whiskers, so white and soft. When she trots along her tail is right up in the air. I adore her. There’s a knife over there, would you like to kill her? We could lock her in a tiny crate for a few months first, so small she can't move, fatten her up, slit her throat and make a pie.
You’re shocked I know. That’s our western culture. Some animals are pets and others are food, largely depending on how cute they are. I’m glad you chose not to. If you didn't feel a little sick inside I'd have to ask you to leave. I wouldn't have let you harm her anyway. I already told you I adore her, what kind of monster do you think I am? I feed her milk and she has a velvet pillow I found at the thrift store, she's spoilt really. Sometime this week we'll get her a scratching post...
Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by .
The kitten looks softer than any department store toy. It's a tortoiseshell, and so female I'll bet. She's yowling like a baby calling for mother but she can't be close. She can't be more than a couple of weeks old either, too young to be alone like this. I open the gate to the scrubby old paddock and she takes fright, trotting down a long concrete pipe that's been lying there forever. She sits in the dark crying, so I do the only thing that springs to mind. I stand stiller than a statue at the pipe entrance, likely if I don't move she won't be able to see me, then I use one of my few God given talents. I can meow quite convincingly, though I'm not sure it will work. Fooling a person is one thing, but fooling a cat? I return her "meows" and she replies every time. I can here that her sound is getting closer and closer. Eventually a fluffy black and ginger face appears and the end of the tunnel. I don't move. Too soon and she'll run before I can get low enough to grab and this trick will only work once. After a little more of our "conversation" she is a foot from the tunnel mouth, right next to my shoes. As fast as I can I reach down and grab her, holding her softly and then meow and purr to her. Now the challenge will be feeding and raising such a young kitten, but she's healthy enough, just hungry.
Only days ago the kitten was blind, following the milky scent to her mother, wriggling next to her siblings in the warm spring sunshine. I've got to hand it to Cleo, she picked a fine place to birth them. It's a kind of alcove behind our cottage, maybe once it was for keeping firewood dry. Now though it has an old couch in it, sticking up on one end with one side to the elements. All in all it's sheltered, cozy and close to home. I've sat here cross legged for too many hours already, balancing my chemistry books on my knee - hoping to see them come out. Then after what seems like forever Cleo comes out looking perfect as ever, somehow cats seem to roll with having multiple babies in a way we humans can't. Or maybe she's tired? How would you tell with a cat? I jump. Behind her comes a kitten, trotting out on legs shorter than matchsticks, yowling after its mother. Cleo turns and picks it up in her mouth, returning it to her "nest" and then she returns. When she almost reaches me for her cuddles we both hear another newborn yowl. Now two, no three, no four kittens are trotting after her, moving over the short grass like it's an un-mown prairie. This time Cleo is faster, but each time she takes in a kitten another tumbles out. Then finally she gives up and instead walks around them while they explore the back yard. This isn't "Cleo the relaxed," Cleo who lies for hours in front of the fire or on my bed, the is "Cleo the new mother" and I guess this is her version of "new mother stress."
The kitten holds her head like she's the born ruler of the universe, yet the wobble in her walk shows she isn't yet in full command of her own limbs. She mews with the same newness that a newborn baby cries, high pitched yet still soft, unable to project the volume more developed lungs can muster.
The kitten is smaller than the palm of Kashmir's hand, a miniature cartwheel of fur. Her eyes aren't yet open; she lies so still, sleeping, a tiny miracle of creation. Without her mother she needs round the clock care, but Kashmir won't have to look far for volunteers. Her sisters have already set about finding supplies and devising a night time roster.
The kitten of yesterday, cute and dependant, has given way to a brand new stage of kittenhood. Tinker prances more than walks, only slinking when she hears a rustling nearby or winds herself around Terry's legs to ask for her supper. It's the beginnings of cathood, her adult years, but she's still got a heaving sprinkling of youth in her growing bones. A trail of yarn drives her crazy, clawing at the carpet as if her life depended on victory.