Mile Markers

**MILE MARKER**
 If Claude were bigger, would he eat me?
I lay in bed and considered the question as he sat above me on his perch by the window, 
staring down at my feet, which didn’t dare move a centimeter. His tail swished from side to 
side, and his ears stood tall as he watched the small blanketed mound at the end of the bed, 
looking for any sign of life.
 If there were to be any, he’d make short work of it.
 And there I had my answer.
 It’s not that the cat didn’t love me; it’s that it was in his nature to attack anything that moved. It 
was as programmed into him as the color of his fur and his bright green eyes. When we were 
on the road, the exercise became all the more pronounced because, with a lack of variety in 
things to attempt to pursue, my feet became the only viable option to do what came natural to 
him.
 I debated my next move carefully as my eyes rolled down heavily like a warehouse door. I 
managed to crease the page that I would have to read again tomorrow and set the book in the 
alcove above the mattress — all of this without moving my feet an inch. He continued to watch 
with murderous intent as I considered my options.
 I could provide a decoy, scratching the blanket with my fingers while making the necessary 
adjustments for my legs to find solace from the cramp that was building. Or I could just go for 
it, accept the consequences, and hope my winter blanket was thick enough to handle the 
onslaught.
 Claude fidgeted for just a fraction of a second, but it gave away his move, and with a clumsy 
roll, I readjusted my legs to a position that I deemed might get me through the first part of the 
night. He attacked with the force of a thousand cats before him, plowing headfirst into my feet, 
his sharp little white teeth gnashing at the toes, his claws furiously digging into the blanket, 
trying to retrieve the offending object.
 “It’s my feet, Claude, you know that!”
 He didn’t care and continued the onslaught with unabashed intensity, leaving me to now 
ponder what he would do if I weren’t his primary source of food. I managed to block the attack 
with my hand and scratch him gently behind the ears as he ripped at the blanket, finally ending 
the ambush with a flop onto his side and an insistence that I now scratch his belly — like 
somehow… I… owed him.
 There was no doubt that if he were, say, the size of a teenage tiger, he would kill me — but I 
think he would do it apologetically, like a dog playing with the family rabbit.
 Sure, it would be cute, but not great for the rabbit.--