Halfway through the night, it stalks in and lands on your chest. Like an obese cat—all stealth and heft. It sleeps there while you try to logic your way out. You consider alternatives; it either snores or purrs. This and the claws, only half-retracted, keep you awake. It smells of meat and dust. Now you must resist or accommodate—by reconciling yourself to rising early, to scooping up the musty clumps it will leave behind. So you accept its heavy grace and also culpability for the birds it kills.
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