I didn’t plan on becoming a lap kitty. It just happened — the way sunbeams happen, or snacks happen, or the way Jaime (yes, I know you call him Barney, but I knew him before the rebrand) sighs when he sits down after a long day. One afternoon, I looked at him, looked at the chair, looked at the space between us, and thought, Well… somebody has to do it.
So I hopped up.
And let me tell you something: humans underestimate how much work goes into being a lap kitty. It’s not just sitting. It’s emotional regulation. It’s temperature control. It’s spiritual supervision. It’s making sure he doesn’t drift too far into his thoughts. I’m basically a therapist with fur.
When I settle into his lap, I can feel the whole house shift. The inn exhales. The walls soften. The day unclenches. He thinks he’s comforting me, but really, I’m stabilizing him. I can feel his heartbeat slow. I can feel his breathing deepen. I can feel the storms inside him quiet down, even if he doesn’t say a word.
Humans talk too much anyway. I prefer the quiet kind of communication — the kind that happens when I curl my paws, tuck my tail, and start a slow, steady purr. That’s my language. That’s how I tell him, You’re safe. You’re home. You’re not alone.
Being a lap kitty is also strategic. I choose my moments. I don’t climb up when he’s rushing or distracted. I wait until he’s still — when the light is soft, when the house is calm, when he’s finally sitting in that chair like he’s ready to be human again. That’s when I make my move. That’s when I do my job.
And yes, it’s a job. A very important one.
I’m not just a cat. I’m the inn’s emotional steward.
I’m the grounding force.
I’m the keeper of the quiet.
I’m the one who reminds him that clarity doesn’t always come from thinking — sometimes it comes from warmth, weight, and choosing someone’s lap like it’s the safest place in the world.
So yes, I’m a lap kitty now.
And honestly? I’m proud of the promotion.
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