The cat and the ball of thread

⏱ ~5 min reading

In a small, warm house, where there was always a kettle on the stove and red geraniums blooming on the window, there lived a kitten. His name was Murkotyk. His fur was gray, with white paws - as if he had walked on flour. His eyes were green, like the first leaves in spring. And his nose was pink, wet, always curious.

Murkotyk lived with his grandmother. The grandmother was kind, wearing a soft scarf, smelling of milk and dried lavender. She loved to knit - warm socks, gloves, and large woolen shawls for her grandchildren. There was always a wicker basket next to her chair. In it, like sleepy hedgehogs, balls of thread slept. Red, blue, yellow, soft white. All kinds.

Murkotyk looked at these balls for a long time. A very long time. They are round. They are fluffy. They are just begging to be pushed a little with his paw.

One morning, the grandmother went to her neighbor's to borrow some sugar for her tea. The house became quiet. Only the clock on the wall was ticking: tick-tock, tick-tock. The little mouse was sitting in the middle of the room, looking at the basket. Its tail twitched by itself.

«I’ll just take a look,» he thought.

He approached. He sniffed. The basket smelled of wool and the sun.

«"And I'll touch it with just one finger.".

He touched it. The topmost ball—red as a ripe apple—gently yielded. It rolled a little.

«"Oh!" Murkotyk was surprised. And jumped.

The ball rolled out of the basket, rolled across the floor and stopped at the leg of the chair. The little cat ran after it. With a paw, «bam!» — the ball rolled further. Again, «bam!» — and still further. The kitten jumped and squeaked with joy. He had never liked anything so much in his life.

“Mur-mur-meow!” he said.

The ball rolled - and a thin red thread trailed behind it. At first a little. Then more. Then even more. Murkotyk didn't notice. He only saw the round ball merrily running away from him under the sofa, under the table, under the chair.

Ten minutes later, the room was a veritable forest. The red thread had wrapped itself around the table leg, wrapped itself around the chair, gone over the pillow, crossed the carpet. It was like a spider's web, only red. And in the middle of this web was a little gray kitten jumping.

The little mouse wanted to jump again - and suddenly found that he could not. His leg would not move. He looked. The thread was wrapped around his leg. He tried the second one - and it was also tangled. His tail was in knots. His neck was in a loop.

“Meow?” Murkotyk squeaked in surprise.

He twitched. The threads tightened. He twisted—it got worse. The more he moved, the tighter it got. It was as if a spider had put him in its web.

The little purr let out its small sharp claws. He tried to cut it - the threads only creaked, but did not break. He purred angrily. Then plaintively. Then - he cried.

- Meow-meow! My-I-I-yaw!

His voice carried through the quiet house. The geranium sat silently on the window. The clock was ticking. And Murkotyk was getting more and more confused.

Then—peep!—the door opened. Grandma returned with a bag of sugar. She entered the room—and froze.

Red threads everywhere. An overturned basket. And in the middle was a little gray ball with ears, from which two green frightened eyes peered.

"Oh, you're my troublemaker," said the grandmother gently.

She didn't scream. She didn't fight. She didn't grab. Instead, she put the sugar down on the table, slowly took off her handkerchief, and sat down on the floor right next to Murkotik.

"Hush, little one," she whispered. "Don't move. I'll untangle you. Just sit still.".

Murkotyk froze. He looked at his grandmother with big, big eyes. His grandmother's eyes were blue, with thin, gentle wrinkles. Her hands were warm, with thin fingers. She began to slowly, very slowly remove the buttonhole after the buttonhole.

She found the first one and carefully removed it from her paw. She found the second one and freed its tail. She lifted the third one from her neck, like a thin red bead. She was in no hurry. She never scolded for a moment. Only sometimes she said gently: "That's it, Murkotika. That's it, little one.".

Five minutes later, Murkotyk was free. He was standing on the floor, a little confused, a little wet from small tears. Grandma sat him on her lap.

"You see, little one," she said, stroking his head. "Playing with something that can get confusing requires caution. Don't run headlong into a place where you don't know the way out.".

Murkotyk didn't quite understand all the words. But he understood the warm hand. He buried his nose in his grandmother's skirt.

"And also," added the grandmother, winding the thread back into a ball, "when it's already tangled, don't pull. Lie still. And wait. The one who loves you will come and gently untangle it. Always.".

From that day on, Murkotyk played only with a ball - soft, woolen, without a tail. Grandma sewed one for him herself - from scraps. And Murkotyk respected the balls of thread in the basket from afar. Sometimes he would come up, sniff, touch it with his paw - and walk away.

And when grandma sat down in a chair and started knitting, Murkotyk would jump onto her lap. He would curl up into a ball. He would listen to the knitting needles ticking gently. And he would fall asleep. Because he knew: no thread is scary when you are near someone who loves you.