Is the Tiny Cat Emily Dickinson?

She hasn't left my room in days, preferring to spend the hot afternoons curled up on my suitcase near the air conditioning vents and the nights sitting on the window ledge staring out onto the parked cars in the driveway. Like any cat, I suspect, the wide world of the back yard and the tiny world of my room are both equally interesting. Cats, with their openness to quiet and their appreciation of nuance, give me a lot to think about. Watching the cat watching me last night, I got to thinking about the numerous things I appreciate about her. Out of everyone in our house, she's the bravest. When the hermit crab came tumbling out of my pajamas and I shrieked and shrieked because I thought it was a mutant mouse, and the dog and the orange cat ran downstairs to hide under the endtable together, she burst into the bathroom, even though a shower had just taken place in there, and immediately began swatting the crab away from me. Of everyone in the house, she is the quietest--except when she cries out before coughing up a hairball--which allows her to move through the house mostly unnoticed. And, of everyone in the house, she most knows how to comfort you when you're feeling down. The Butcher leaves, as does the orange cat. The dog acts as if your sadness is a personal insult to her. But the tiny cat will come and lay down near you just to let you know you are not alone. Is she writing poetry, though? That I cannot tell.