Soothe

Cats in 1850. 700 words, 3 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.

The late afternoon sun scattered across the Mississippi like spilled honey, catching the brass fittings of a passing steamboat and throwing shafts of light across the water. Maisie tracked these glimmers from her perch on the sun-warmed porch, her tail curling slightly at each flash. Through half-closed eyes, she watched the rivermen scurrying across the deck, their movements quick and anxious as water striders. They hadn't noticed the shift in the wind that she'd sensed an hour ago—the one that meant the storm clouds gathering upriver would pass them by.

Behind her, the screen door slammed. Sarah emerged, her fingers twisting the edge of her apron. "Land sakes, if it ain't hot enough to fry an egg on these boards," she said, dropping heavily into the rocking chair. The familiar scent of lavender water couldn't quite mask the worry-sweat at her temples. She pulled out her mending with shaking hands, then let it fall back into the basket.

Maisie had watched Sarah grow from a child who pulled tails to a young woman who understood the proper way to treat a cat—with respect and regular portions of cream skimmed fresh from the morning's milk. She'd also learned to read the girl's moods as clearly as she read the river's currents. Something was off.

A riverman's song drifted across the water, mingling with the drone of cicadas and the distant clatter of the mill wheel. The wheel's rhythm faltered, stuttered, then resumed its grinding. Sarah's shoulders tensed at each irregular beat.

"Pa says the water's too low for proper milling," she whispered, her voice thin as spider silk. "Says we might have to wait on the spring floods." Her fingers worried at a loose thread until it snapped. "Thomas wanted to buy the second mill next month, had it all planned out. But now..." She pressed her lips together, blinking hard.

Maisie rose, stretched—first her front paws, then her back—and padded across the weathered boards. She placed each paw deliberately, feeling the day's warmth rising through her pads.

"Oh!" Sarah's laugh wavered as Maisie began her careful ascent into her lap. "Here I am fretting like a june bug in a jar, and you're steady as the river itself."

Maisie settled herself, pressing her paw deliberately against the fabric where a tear had been recently mended. She remembered the night Sarah had sewn it, fingers trembling as she read Thomas's letter about the mill purchase. That tear had been mended, just as this trouble would pass.

A steamboat's whistle pierced the air, followed by shouts from the dock. Sarah startled, but Maisie only flicked an ear. After twelve years on this porch, she knew which disturbances warranted attention and which were merely river noise. Her purr deepened as Sarah's hands stilled their fidgeting to stroke her fur.

From the mulberry tree came the song of a catbird, its melody a perfect mimicry of Maisie's morning greeting. Sarah's next laugh came easier, more genuine. "Reckon you've taught that bird a thing or two about singing."

The sun dipped lower, painting the water in deeper shades of amber. Heat rose from the boards in waves, carrying the scent of sun-warmed cedar and river mud. From downstream came the hollow thunk of boats being tied up for the night, and the voices of rivermen calling to each other, their earlier haste forgotten as evening settled in.

Sarah's breathing had slowed to match Maisie's purr, her fingers finding that perfect spot behind Maisie's ears. The mending lay forgotten in its basket. Tomorrow would bring its own troubles, but for now, there was just the river's song, the fading light, and the simple truth Maisie had always known: that some of life's deepest wisdom could be found in moments of shared stillness.

"Strange," Sarah murmured, her voice steady at last, "how the world seems to right itself when you've got a cat in your lap."

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