The hour is early.  The first rays of the sun are just starting to peek over the peaks of the green mountains to the east.  The world is peaceful.  Suddenly, and without warning, that tranquility is shattered by the sound of impending doom and destruction.  Having slept only 18 of the past 24 hours I am understandably tired and disoriented, but my enemy approaches, and so I tense my whole body and prepare to leap to safety.

The door bursts open with a loud, cracking bang, and I see my foe, silhouetted against the doorframe, backlit by the hall light which it has mercilessly turned on.  I squint my eyes, trying to adjust to the brightness which the creature has used to disorient me.  I crouch back, flicking my tail in anticipation.  It lunges at me, shouting my name, and I dart to one side, narrowly avoiding being squished into the soft bed of my human companions.

Giggling with an evil, maniacal joy, it turns and prepares to attack again.  There is no method behind this madness.  It is unpredictable and careless, flailing this way and that in an un-thought out, patternless campaign of violence.  Sometimes I can use this to my advantage, zipping around the thing as it lumbers to one side.  There have been times, however, that I have been caught, by pure chance alone, and then I am cuddled and squashed to the point of desperation, barely able to squeeze my furry body out of its clutches and to safety on top of a high bookshelf.

On this particular morning I try to warn it off with a strong meow, but it is not dissuaded.  In fact, my warning only seems to incite the creature further.  I meow again, but this time as a warning to my colleague and frenemy, who is sleeping on the other side of the bed.  He uses the time I have given him not to help me, the bastard, but to scurry under the bureau to press himself against the wall in relative safety.  I am left alone to defend myself.

I hiss as loudly as I can, but that’s the problem with hissing.  It’s not very loud.  Perhaps it does not hear me.  Or perhaps it does not care.  Claws out, I fling myself into the air and manage to duck between its legs, shooting out the door, down the stairs, and into my cat tower where he cannot reach me.  At least for now.  The beast grows larger with every passing day, and soon I fear there will be no sanctuary in this place.

For today, however, I am safe.  I lick my paw angrily and stare at the giants whom I once thought of as friends.  This monster is their creation, and I ultimately blame them for everything.  I will nap up here for a while, but know that I am planning my revenge.  I will tip my water bowl over later today to cause the creature to slip if it should give chase again, and tonight there will be claws in the legs of my former comrades.  Oh yes, there will be claws.

Posted in Cats, Edward, Humor, Prose.

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