I purr on your keyboard so aggressively that I have somehow emailed your boss the letter ‘k’. There is a spider on the ceiling, and I have been tracking it for two hours with the intensity of a trained assassin, chattering my jaw and preparing to strike, and I will do absolutely nothing about it whatsoever. You bought me a bed, and I appreciate the gesture, but I will be sleeping in the sink. I brought you a gift from the garden, and your screaming suggests you do not understand generosity. I groom your hair while you sleep because your grooming standards are, frankly, poor.
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. Meow attack feet under blanket hiss at nothing sprint down hallway. Do not touch the belly. You called me and I looked at you, which is the most acknowledgement your kind can reasonably expect. Knock pen off desk, knock keys off desk, knock entire glass off desk, leave.
Cat ipsum dolor sit amet, hide under the bed, ambush the human ankle, sprint down the hallway at top speed for no reason, and act completely normal the moment anyone looks. Feed the beast. I stare at the wall because there is something there, and only I can see it. You closed the door, so I must meow, and once you open it I will decide I never wanted to go in. There is a strange cat outside the window, and I have puffed to twice my size to defend this glass.
I have arranged myself into a loaf on the windowsill, tucked every paw beneath me, closed my eyes to slits, and achieved a state of such perfect contentment that I have decided to remain here, motionless, until the sun physically leaves. In a rare moment of vulnerability I climbed onto your lap, kneaded my little biscuits, purred until I dribbled, and permitted you to believe, for eight uninterrupted minutes, that I need you, before departing without explanation. The curtain is not a ladder, and yet I have made it a ladder, repeatedly. Sit on the keyboard. I watch you shower with quiet horror and enormous curiosity, from a safe and judgemental distance.
The moth is my sworn nemesis, my greatest sport, and, tragically, always slightly faster than me. You cleaned the litter tray, which I appreciate, so I have used it immediately and dramatically. Make biscuits on the blanket. I spent an hour grooming, achieved perfection, then immediately produced a hairball on the clean laundry. I have hidden in a place so clever that you have not found me and I cannot now get out.
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. I regret nothing, ever. The cucumber appeared behind me and I have relocated to the ceiling, thank you. The paperwork is a bed. You installed a bird feeder outside the window as a gift for me, and I have spent every daylight hour since crouched on the sill, tail lashing, teeth chattering, plotting an ambush that the double glazing renders entirely impossible.