Wee small hours in Whitley. No lights on in the houses down our street. Driven downstairs by the scratchy cough-demon in my throat, I meet Timmy, our cat, by the kettle. Two small fires of intention in the kitchen. I'm after tea; Timmy's after food, fussing, probably.
It's easy to anthropomorphise. He's after the door in the kitchen, opened, by me, into the rest of the house, a venture I'm reluctant to allow him to make. There is a stand-off at the door-jamb. We look at one another.
I use my beastly power to shut him kitchenside. He uses his to express disdain, turning to his food bowl, forgetting the unattainable. I'm left on the wrong side of the door.