Stand on your chest at dawn. I have decided that 4am is breakfast, and my decision is final and non-negotiable. I knocked on the door with one paw like a tiny landlord, and I expect prompt service.
You were petting me, and it was perfect, exactly the right pressure in exactly the right place, and then some ancient instinct stirred deep within me and I bit you, immediately, without regret, and I would do it again. The moment you sat down with your laptop, opened the important document, and began to type, I understood that my sacred duty was to walk slowly across the keyboard, sit directly on the screen, and gaze at you with love. Bring the dead thing inside, place it lovingly on the pillow, expect praise. The middle of the stairs is my throne, and you may step carefully around your ruler. A cardboard box appeared in the hallway this morning, and I have claimed it, defended it, slept in it, fallen out of it, climbed back into it, and destroyed one corner of it, and it is now the most important object in this house. Curtains are for climbing. I brought you a gift from the garden, and your screaming suggests you do not understand generosity.
Sleep sixteen hours, complain anyway. The vet was a betrayal so profound that I have added the entire car to my list of enemies. The vacuum emerged from the cupboard, and I have relocated to the top of the wardrobe indefinitely. Cat ipsum dolor sit amet, knead the blanket into biscuits, purr like a small motor, drool a little from the joy of it, and refuse to acknowledge the drool ever occurred. The bug flew too high, and I jumped too short, and we shall never speak of this again. I brought the sock to you as tribute, and you took the sock, and now we are enemies.
Yours, obviously. Hairball incoming. The shoebox is small and I am not, and yet, somehow, we make it work. The red dot must die. The sunbeam moved across the floor, and so, with great effort and mild resentment, did I. I sat in the perfect square of sunlight until it moved, then blamed you for the sun. Attack the feet.
I knocked the plant over, ate one leaf, regretted the leaf, and blamed the plant. I fell asleep watching the birds and dreamed, I assume, of catching absolutely none of them. Vacuum is the enemy. I hear the treat bag from three rooms away and I am already here, expectant. There is a strange cat outside the window, and I have puffed to twice my size to defend this glass. The vet appointment was, without exaggeration, the single greatest betrayal of my entire life, and although I have technically forgiven you, the carrier will remain on my list of enemies alongside the vacuum and the cucumber.
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