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Cat brushing. A Story by Jane Campbell

This morning I was brushing the cat as I watched the rain come across the water towards us.

She is a Siamese and smooth-haired and like me quite old,

and her fur is not as strong or as resilient as it used to be, but she arched her back with delight

and raised her head so that I could reach her throat, the most vulnerable part of her.

And seeing her respond like this to the strong, smooth strokes, I could see myself in bed

with one of the lovers, and my own arching and offering,

and wondered when I had finished with the brushing, whether she felt as I had when it was over,

not just brushed, fucked, but glad, even grateful, to have been, brushed, fucked, fucked. In other words, was it only the moment with her,

or was there a reflective pleasure as well? When I had finished, she walked away while I stood up

with some difficulty. She lies fully extended on the kitchen floor for the brushing process, while I kneel beside her.

I find these days I have to hold on to the edge of the counter to get to my feet,

but I tell myself it is good exercise for my thighs.

And then inevitably, the other exercises my thighs once got involved in come to mind.

The kitchen door was open, and I could see the water in the great sound, which early this

morning resembled sheet metal, on which the tiny humps of the islands rested.

I walked to the door and watched as the whole horizon and all the sea and the land

became cloudy with the strengthening rain.

...