By Tamara Hunter
It’s easy to sit down with a notebook and write any old piece of shit while the cat tosses the empty stocking packet around on the doona. While he looks around for the next bit of mischief, decides there is none more interesting than this, and resumes the tossing. He pauses again…surely…there must be something…did that packet just move? Right! That’s it! Die, packet, die! The feline fang is upon you…you will die tonight! Yawn. Sigh.
Sleep. Chin on paws, packet safely vanquished. Don’t worry Mum, it won’t be giving you any more trouble tonight. I’m a GOOD cat. Accordingly, I will sit right at the bottom of your feet, where they are drawn up, just to give you that sensation of having been cut off at the knees when you try to stretch out again. Because I love you so much…purrrr…don’t poke me with your toes…that’s not fair…yawn…schleeepy…must attack toe…must…kill…..zzzzzzzz.
And so, another day of Nermalia draws to a close, another day of stolen food, pawprints across the counter and teeth sunk into Flop’s neck. A good day’s work really…zzzzzzz.
© Tamara Hunter 1999