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That's when I realized she wasn't trying to kill me. Her paws were kneading me. She was purring, not growling. This was a cat in the throes of ecstasy.
She stepped off my chest. I could breathe again. She stepped onto my pillow, lay down and curled her body around the top of my head.
"Nice cat hat."
I winced as her claws sunk into my temple. "She's a good kitty."
Rebecca Wood Barrett lives in Whistler, and is obviously a cat person.
Third Place #3
Checking Out the Spa
By Karen McLeod
I arrived at the spa bursting with optimism. This would be the place to find a man of quality, a man with a plan, a man who owned a car, a man who didn't think alcohol was one of the four food groups, a man who didn't share a house with 14 people, a man who had a house.
Elegance surrounded me: wide plank wood floors, a fireplace encased in glass, the aroma of citrus ginger. Benches with cushions of red and shades of grey bordered the walls of windows, and polished pebbles adorned the sills. Cello played softly over the sound system, and other than the occasional shrill bird-call piped in, it was a paragon of tranquility. And then I saw the sign.
"Silence?" I read aloud.
"Yes. Don't be embarrassed if a staff member gently reminds you of our silence policy," the receptionist said.
"Someone should remind the birds. Are they in distress?" I asked. She didn't respond. She was nice and all, just seriously calm, as if she'd just come from a yoga class.
"Low talking is permitted in the café," she said.
"Great, because my sign language is a little rusty and I'm looking forward to the soup," I said. Lotus Lady closed her eyes. I realized I had forgotten my robe. She said I could rent one, so I calculated that with a bowl of soup, the cost of my spa day was now over seventy-five bucks.
"The robe isn't mandatory, ma'am," she said.
She hadn't seen my thighs.