A Feline Monologue
There: Moving: What?
Musty and dusty hairs bristle as he scuttles and – RUNS!
MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE! MY-OWN!
Hmm-mMm… All these smellycapped twopaws: so heavy on their bottoms when game is passing right under their enormous snouts.
If my snout was that long I’d be so deep in the thickness of scent I could – by Tuna! – I could do anything! Certainly never miss a musty. Definitely never pounce into a barker…or small twopaws – those untouchable dirty creatures that scrunch and pull my fur as if I was a toy.
What are the twopaws doing now? Will they stroke me?
Hmm-mMm… Not this one. He WANTS to stroke me. And this one smells of barker.
AH, this one I like: He smells of the mushies and crunchies: He is the Feeder.
I call him so he knows I’m here: prr-RE-cious?
Pr-RE-cious, you know how to please me. That’s good - rub my tummy!
No-no! Don’t stop! Me! Me! Me-ouch!
What’s happening? They are all springing from their mutilated bottoms. They are – wary! They are sniffing, sweating and shuffling – better get out of the way.
And precious? His voice scratches the air playfully. His limbs are all limp and relaxed. He’s stretching his neck, he’s offering his tummy. He’s pleased with himself, he is! He’s looking at them as I would look at a musty trapped between my claws.
Smart twopaw! Good twopaw! My twopaw! Mine! My-Own!
I think I’ll let him play with them for now.
No crunchies, no mushies, no bristling musties.
Only quiet dust.
Right: Nap-time: Here’s good: Here is always good.