I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who would jump through the open window by my bed in the middle of the night and land on my chest. I'd half-awaken. He'd stick his skull under my nose and purr, stinking of urine and blood. Some nights he kneaded my bare chest with his front paws, powerfully, arching his back, as if sharpening his claws, or pummeling a mother for milk. And some mornings I'd wake in daylight to find my body covered with paw prints in blood; I looked as though I'd been painted with roses.
The quote describes an intense and evocative experience of waking up to an old cat that would leap through the window at night. The cat, layered in the scents of urine and blood, would land heavily on the author’s chest, stirring them from slumber. This nighttime ritual involves the cat kneading the author’s skin, reminiscent of a kitten nursing, creating a visceral connection between the two beings.
By morning, the evidence of this nocturnal visit is stark; the author awakens to discover their body adorned with paw prints resembling roses. This imagery conveys both beauty and discomfort, highlighting the raw, primal nature of the animal's presence and the deep bond shared between the author and the cat. It encapsulates moments of tenderness mingled with the harsh realities of life and nature.
