A little fluff. A very firm opinion.
The Usual Chair
The Persian cat had never put his name on the blue armchair. He had understood that his regular presence was sufficient.
It stood beside his cousin Pippa’s window, angled toward the garden. The cushion held its shape, the afternoon sun reached one arm, and anyone coming in with a plate had to pass within a convenient distance.
A broad wooden sill ran just above the chair arms, with a low bench beneath it. Pippa kept a basket of sewing there, along with three books she intended to read when she had finished sewing.
The cat glanced at the familiar arrangement as he came in from the hall.
Then he looked at the chair.
Aunt Bea was sitting in it.
Already Taken
“Hello, darling,” she said. “Come and tell me what you’ve been doing.”
He stopped beside the armchair and gave her a moment to notice where she was.
Aunt Bea smiled up at him. He looked at the cushion, then toward the other chairs around the table.
Pippa came in carrying a bowl of apples.
“There’s a place beside me,” she said, setting the bowl down.
“Thank you. I’m considering.”
His aunt began to gather her knitting.
“Were you going to sit here?”
As she leaned forward, the blanket slipped from her lap. Beneath it, one bandaged hind paw rested on a cushion on the footstool. She paused, holding the knitting against her chest.
The cat looked down.
“What happened?”
“A foolish step off the garden path.”
Pippa moved the little table nearer so Aunt Bea could set down her knitting.
“We tried the chair by the bookcase,” she said. “There wasn’t room for the stool without putting her foot in the doorway.”
“I can move if—” Aunt Bea began.
“Stay,” said the cat. “I haven’t finished considering.”
He drew the fallen edge of the blanket back over her lap, leaving her paw resting where it was.
A Better Claim
For a while, he stood beside the chair. Aunt Bea settled back and unwound a length of wool.
Across the window bench, sunlight made a bright square on the wood. Above it, the sewing basket occupied one end of the sill. The rest was wide enough for a cat who knew how to arrange himself.
He stepped onto the low bench and put his front paws on the sill. From there, he could see over the nearest hedge to the lane beyond.
Pippa watched him inspect the space.
“Shall I move my sewing?”
“The pins, certainly.”
She lifted the basket and the three books onto a shelf. He waited until she had gathered a loose needle, then climbed up. The sill was warm beneath his paws, with room to turn before settling along the window.
His tail hung over the edge. He brought it up and laid it neatly beside him.
“Would you like a cushion?” Pippa asked.
He tested the wood once more.
“A small one.”
She brought the spare cushion from the window bench. He stood while she put it down, then turned twice and settled with his cheek toward the garden.
Below him, Aunt Bea’s knitting needles began to click again.
Naturally
Pippa took the chair beside the table and asked about his morning. This time, he answered. He had visited the market, found the fish stall closed, and received an explanation from the greengrocer that he considered incomplete.
Aunt Bea listened while working another row. When her ball of wool rolled from her lap, the cat leaned over the sill and stopped it with one paw before it reached the floor.
He nudged it back onto the broad chair arm. She caught it and tucked it beside her.
“Thank you, darling.”
He returned his paw to the cushion.
A cart went past in the lane. From his new place, he watched it all the way to the corner.
“I can see why you always liked this chair,” Aunt Bea said.
He looked down at her, then rested his chin again.
“That one,” he said, “is for guests.”
Pippa bent over the apple bowl. Aunt Bea continued her knitting.
On the sill, the cat closed his eyes before either of them could disagree.
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