February arrives wrapped in excuses.
The cold settles in like an uninvited guest
who refuses to leave
and eats all the good snacks.
The hooman claims they are not lazy.
They are conserving heat.
They say this while wearing three layers,
holding a mug they forgot to drink from,
and staring at nothing in particular.
Outside, the air bites.
Inside, the hooman shivers dramatically,
as if personally wronged by winter.
I watch from the radiator,
a creature who has mastered the art of warmth.
February smells like soup,
cough drops,
and optimism that did not survive January.
The hooman sneezes and apologizes to no one.
They sniff and declare,
“I think I’m getting sick,”
as if this is a new and shocking development.
They google symptoms.
They decide it is serious.
They decide to rest immediately.
This is where I come in.
Suddenly, I am essential.
A blanket is not enough.
A hoodie is insufficient.
Only a cat, strategically placed,
can restore balance to the universe.
I sit on their chest.
They thank me.
The hooman speaks of summer.
They speak of sunshine like it was a dream
they once had and might have again.
They say things like,
“When it warms up, I’ll start walking.”
I blink slowly.
February is not a month for lies.
The house grows quieter in February.
Plans are postponed.
Even ambition puts on socks and lies down.
The hooman cancels outings
because it is cold,
because it might snow,
because the couch feels supportive.
They wrap themselves tighter,
becoming a soft, stationary object.
I approve.
Cold weather makes hoomans sentimental.
They talk about comfort food.
They eat comfort food.
They remember childhood winters
and say,
“It used to snow more,”
as if snow was personally trying harder back then.
They complain about drafts.
They rearrange blankets.
They forget where they put the tissues
while holding the tissues.
I supervise.
At night, February is strongest.
The cold presses against the windows,
testing them.
The hooman burrows deeper under covers,
calling my name like a spell.
I arrive slowly,
because warmth appreciates anticipation.
Together, we wait for spring
without rushing it.
February is not about progress.
It is about endurance.
It is about naps that feel earned.
It is about staying in and calling it self care.
The hooman coughs once more,
then settles.
Their breathing evens out.
The room grows still.
I curl closer.
This is my season.
February can keep its cold.
We are warm enough.
© Oh Erik 2026 – Sarah-Leigh Wills.