The cat always looks angry.

Even when I’m minding my own business, and she pads over to the couch to plunk herself down on my lap – as her fearless sense of ownership often compels her to do when the temperature plummets – her face never betrays the abject disdain she seems to have for my existence.

She’s not hanging around because she likes me. She’s here for the modicum of extra warmth I can provide.

It is an observable fact that despite such proximity, her very countenance pulses with unmistakable foreboding. Between slight purrs, her tail raises and lowers, circling the air and landing alongside my leg with an audible thwap. This is a warning.

If I touch her fur anywhere besides the back of her head, she directs a low........

© The Saratogian