A pregnant cat
licking its fuzzy belly
in a warm drizzle
-Richard Wright
In my shaking hand: a pee-soaked strip of plastic. At my feet, bare and cold on the February
floor: a cat. We look at each other. I’m pregnant, I announce. I’m thirsty, she replies without
words, turn on the faucet so I can drink. At the sound of running water, the muscles in her
haunches tighten. She springs onto the bathroom sink, quiet as a branch dropping onto a bed of
snow. She’s skinny under her thick gray fur, but her belly hangs low, distended ever since she
was spayed as a kitten. Now her belly brushes the bottom of the basin, collecting fuzzy droplets,
while her urgent tongue licks inefficiently at the stream. My brain is thirsty, too, dipping in and
out of thoughts. Stop splashing, I tell it. I look around for something to ground me. My hand
finds the cat’s bony back. Her tail shoots up in pleasure, and the purr that rumbles out of her
warms my fingertips. Good girl, we say to each other, good girl.