It is common these days for people to postpone marriage until their mid-thirties. “La petite morte” is an expression of poetic origin that describes the male orgasm and has been used in literary venues as a metaphor for sleep. In this case, both may apply, as the couple stretches their boundaries to seek that comfortable ground where peaceful matrimony can be achieved. The considerations may be many, but often lost in the blur of mind-numbing commitment is the simple fact . . . are there any pets? Either may assume that this is a “given.” Did anybody bother to ask the pet? Dogs are eager to please and will welcome affection from where it comes, but cats, especially Siamese cats are very territorial and possessive. They have an affinity for men, having all the feminine characteristics that beguile men easily and have a natural resentment toward any woman that is entered into the mix. Thus, “La Petite Morte” is a tale [no pun intended] of just such a case.


LA PETITE MORTE


Newlyweds we were, basking in the novelty of sharing our lives. My home felt occupied for the first time, never realizing how empty it had been. A bed waited for us upstairs where we will endure the night, when the little death comes to take our consciousness, leaving us only the security of our embrace.

Her aura melted my past away, the present being of the only importance. All that remained from my former life, somehow changed, just by her being here. The only exception was my cat, a magnificent Siamese cat, who was newly displaced.


For some reason, the cat’s presence in the bedroom made us blush at times, so we tried to coddle and coax her into an alternative arrangement. How foolish of us to think that a plush little bed at the foot of the stairs would be enough to appease her.


We had made the night our friend. It was a time when we could be close and safe, our dreams overlapping, undisturbed by the outside world. Together in bed, reality with its treachery and sorrow was kept at bay, until the morning came. We wished it would always be this way, at least, until we sleep the endless sleep, which can only be slept alone.


We retired early, but lay awake with an ear on the door for any sign of the cat. Silence . . . not a paw, a purr or a chirp and we fell fast asleep. We had underestimated the patience of a feline who would wait half the night to have her way. At the witching hour, padded little paws groped and tugged at our bedroom door. Stealthily entered the heiress of a great jungle beast, lantern eyes aglow in the darkness surveying her domain in which we reposed. Deep asleep when she lit on our bed, I dreamed of her walking upon me. Delicate footsteps meandered toward my head, pencil streams of breath scanning my cheek as her wet nose probed my face.


Undaunted by my mate nearby, she nudged and purred, tickled me with her whiskers, pulling me from slumber to the delight of having her curiosity and affection. The whirring in her breast hypnotically beckoned me to meet her gaze. I dared not, in fear of losing her interest. Felines are fickle by nature. She licked my nose and I couldn’t resist . . . opening my eyes into hers, freezing her for an instant. Faster than a breath she leapt to the floor, bolted out the door, her feet making the pitter-patter sound of an erratic heartbeat down the stairs.

Oblivious to my abandonment, my wife slept the dreamless sleep of the innocent, with only the faint wisp of a smile on her lips. Turning to her, she gathered me in with open arms.


We slept till the first rays of day chased the night and our shadowy queen slinked from behind the cloak of Morpheus to demand a morning tribute from the conquered. Humbly, the innocent made her offering on bent knee, tin can in extended hand. Our goddess accepted without gratitude, but with the arrogance of knowing that she will fill her fancy in nights to come, as she pleases.