Sometimes I wish I was a cat in a basket.
Deluded by a false sense of protection by a plastic barrier I could easily cross if I weren’t lazy.
Then, because even as a cat I’d be an affection seeking parasite, I’d make another cat cuddle in the basket with me.
We’d stay knotted up till noone knew where my furry tummy began and the other cat’s ended.
I’d feel the purry breath of its tiny nose (not so tiny to me because of proportions and shit) lightly tickling my fur, lulling me to sleep.
Being a cat in a basket, is my ultimate wish in life.
Where when I’m not cuddling with a fellow feline family, I’d be sharpening my useless claws for hunting imaginary mosquitoes.
That having being said I’d mostly just sleep you know.
In a blanket on a woven basket, my whiskers fluttering gently as I lay before an ac vent, my belly filled with delicately prepared cat delicacies.
Maybe a massage or two, belly rubs and a bit of scratching by a soft human hand. I have a thing for cooing noises, makes me purr like an engine.
But I’m totally staying in the basket.
It’s my place.
Like I can invite other cats over and shit, if they’re special, take em under the blankets of my basket for a bit of canoodling.
But no dirty paws.
My basket, my rules.