Almost Daily Cat Haiku

Madame SweatPants was enjoying some neck scritches, until she wasn’t. There was probably a telepathic effort to inform me of her rapidly approaching limit, but my psychic receivers must operate on an inverse modulation. Maybe there’s a drug for that.

Her paw, at one moment soft and tenderly kneading biscuits, was abruptly bristling with porcupine hypodermics, a dozen or so of which passed effortlessly through my flesh and bone, skewering my arm to the sofa. As suddenly as this mutilative assault began, she withdrew, and her eyes bore into me as deeply as her claws had. Upon examination, the extent of my physical injuries was far less than it should have been. There was no gruesome exsanguia, no tattered remnants of rent flesh, the cushions to which I was previously pinned showed no sign of penetration. My clothing appeared unmarked as I pulled back my sleeve to reveal my arm, which likewise was unmarred. There was no evidence of the brutal battery I had endured not moments before. But that look. Those searing, piercing eyes. Imprinted on my mind, etched into the surface of those little grey cells. That scar, I shall bear for the remainder of my mortal life.

Anyway. It’s Thursday. Garbage goes out. Plants get watered. Sorry this is a couple minutes late. One of the other cats stepped in their own poo and tracked it all over the room I was sitting in and I paused my writing to clean it up. Fun!