There is a puddle in my lap.

There is a puddle in my lap. It is warm and viscous. It has been lying there, spreading out across my thighs for half an hour or so, as I sit here at the computer. I could get up and do something else, move to another part of the house, but the puddle prevents me. It has grown heavy, and filled every gap and depression formed by the cloth of my bathrobe. It is covered in hair. It is vibrating gently, and a light humming sound is rising from its depths. Its name is Holden.