Armed With Feathers
By Trudy A. Martinez
Up I came pillow in hand. A resounding agitation arouse not only me but also my anger. With a fury, I hurled the pillow in the direction of its origination. Kit knows not to scratch my chair; that cat knows the racket her nails make, protruding inward, pulling outward, creates a reverberating, irritating, and displeasing noise that awakes not only me but also a demon who seeks her out.
“It’s only 4:00 A.M..” I scream. “Leave me alone, I want to sleep.” And then I exclaim with dramatic emphasis, shaking a finger at her while I speak. “Don’t you dare touch that chair again with your nails!”
Her body stretches out and moves upward while her nails position themselves in the chair ready to scratch again. When the sound of my angry voice reaches her ears, she stops and glares at me, testing my patience.
I stare back. She releases her nails from the upholstery and slowly moves away in defeat. “Now get out of here!” I exclaim as I hurl another pillow.