Not a Pet
by Winter

"Meow?"

I try my best to ignore the quiet voice, and the clickity-click of tiny claws across the linoleum floor. Go back to sleep, please. Beddy time was hours ago. Hours!

"Mrr..." Nudge. Nudge again. Yes, that's my foot. "Meow?"

Sighing, I pause the movie, pull out my earbuds, and pick up the fluffy little thing. It spins around in my lap, trampling and trampling, until it finally settles down. Her, really. Not it. Michelle would give me the stare if she heard me think of her little darling as an it.

Sleeping now? Nope. Definitely not.

"Rwwaoh!"

Hey! No biting. And not... claws! All right, I give up. Hey, stop biting, didn't you hear me when I thought, I give up?

I flip her over and start tickling that furry little tummy. Ignoring the pin-pricks of claws that grab me, holding my hand in place. Not stop, daddy, not stop.

I ain't your daddy, fuzzball. I'd tell her to go bother Michelle, but of course, Michelle is a hundred miles away, trapped in lockdown at the in-laws'.

Leaving me with her not-pet project. Don't cuddle her, she'd said. Don't let her bully you into letting her sleep in our bed, or in your lap. Don't give her a name. She's a wild animal, and when she grows up she'll go back to the wild.

We were only a stepping stone for this little thing's life as a wildcat.

"Rrrrrrrrrrrrr..."

And, of course, five days after Michelle left to see her mom and dad, I've broken all of the don'ts.

"Are you a cute little kitten?" I coo as I keep up the tummy-tickling. "Leah's a good kitten?"

"Mrrah!"

Yes, her name is Leah now. Short for leopard, which she is. Not a house cat. Not even a not-house free-roaming moggie. Definitely not a pet.

"Rrrrrrrr."

Definitely a pet.

* * * * * *

A few minutes later the little critter has closed her eyes, and is snoring softly. Yes, snoring. How are you going to survive in the wild if you telegraph your presence to every living thing within a mile's range?

Trying to move as little as possible, I put my 'buds back in and resume my movie. Where were we? Oh yes, two-thirds in, the villain has won and the hero's left for dead. Three-Act Writing 101. No surprises here. I grab my mug of hot chocolate and take a sip.

Bump.

Bump again.

No, you can't have chocolate, it's not good for you. And no, you can't... hey! You can sit on my lap if you want, but please don't sit on my laptop. I can't see the hero's turnaround comeback montage.

Yes, I know you're cute. Don't flaunt it. And do get off my laptop.

"Meow?"

Stop trying to get at my mug. I already told you, you can't have chocolate.

And just like that, she's gone. How can such a tiny thing move so quickly? Under the couch? Good, stay there. It's a perfect place for a nap.

Then a tiny paw sneaks up onto the coffee table, pawing for my bag of marshmallows. Hey! Thief! The bag sprints across the living room floor, tugging a little not-pet kitten with it.

I run after.

* * * * * *

Half an hour later, Leah is snoozing on my pillow. Worn out by playing, nosing about, trying to steal things. Thoroughly enjoying her favourite game; being chased by daddy. No, not daddy. Temporary caretaker. Not a pet.

All everyday occurrences in our house these days. At least when Michelle isn't here. She's usually able to keep Leah in better check. And me, to be honest.

I know I shouldn't, but I pull out my phone and take a picture of the sleeping little thing. Such cuteness needs to be documented. Bad idea. Her eyes snap open, and when I return to the living room I have a furry thing attached to my ankle. Making short work of my sock. No matter, I have plenty of socks. Or wait, I don't. A lot of them are gone to wherever socks go when they die.

Five minutes later, I watch the hero's third-act triumph and the villain's inevitable demise. Leah sleeps. In my lap. Like a pet. Which she's not.

I shudder at the thought of trying to watch a movie with a full-grown leopard in my lap. Poking its nose into anything and everything. But it's going to happen. Leah can't go back into the wild. She's a pet.

She's my pet.