That cat was her consort, black and sleek. In no farm fields did he stealthily creep. No curiosity crossed his mind. None of his nine lives had he left behind. In her arms he was perfectly content. The stroke of her hand was time well spent. The nest of her breast was his happy home. Purr synced with heart beat, never alone. Trips of imagination were the games that they played. He was her consort. He never strayed.