Little Thing

Isabella Ojeda-Ahmed
2 min readJan 6, 2023

I don’t think my cat knows

that she’s keeping me tethered to reality.

I feel her soft head resting on my slippers as I write.

She would rather sleep on my feet

than in the three different beds I’ve bought for her. I’m honored

even when she suddenly wakes up and decides to bite my foot.

When she purrs and kneads the soft flesh of my stomach,

I don’t think she realizes that she’s making me wonder if

maybe my body is okay. If it makes her happy to snuggle up

on the wide expanse of my belly,

then I guess I’m fine with being kind of fat.

I don’t think my cat knows

How much I need to pet her when I’m sad,

Though I’m sure she doesn’t mind. I’m pampering her

when I scratch her behind the ears and cradle her tiny face in my hands.

She doesn’t know it’s keeping me in my body and out of my head,

where intrusive thoughts threaten to make me spiral.

She rolls onto her back and shows me her belly.

She is a cloud of white fluff with four pink paws,

and I can’t help but smile. The fog might consume me again soon,

but her tongue is poking out of her mouth and

at least for a moment I can laugh.

My cat is the only reason I get up some days,

more days than I’d like to admit.

But she’s meowing and she needs me

to feed her, refresh her water, wave a feather on a string

to entertain her. And while I’m up, I guess

I’ll wash my face and make a cup of coffee

even though it’s almost noon.

Originally published at in 2021.



Isabella Ojeda-Ahmed

Writing about identity, mental health, race, adoption, and more. Follow me on Instagram @workingtowardokay