Emil Catt

He sleeps, but not where I’ve laid out a comfy bed.

No, he sleeps on top of the fresh, yet to be folded laundry.                                                      He snores on the jacket I tossed across the back of the sofa when I came in from getting the mail.

The smooth, cool surface of the coffee table seems a favorite spot,  oblivious to the magazines sliding onto the floor when he stretches out his hind legs.

Yes, he sleeps where he will, and he surely will most of every day.

But come evening, just as the sun starts to settle behind the hills,                                          he yowls, then streaks through the house, bouncing off the walls, dragging at the shutters, chasing shadows of who knows what… low growls and butts heads with toy mice strewn near the fireplace.

Then suddenly exhausted, he lies across the comforter, imagining that he will be allowed to sleep there while I find a spot on the couch.

Not.

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