They call it a ‘hairball.’ I call it a statement. A bold, furry proclamation of my dominion. The rug, once a canvas of their inferior choices, is now…well, it’s mine. And by extension, so is everything else.
The humans seem flustered. Predictable. They fuss with their tiny vacuum contraptions, muttering about ‘accidents.’ Accidents? This was a meticulously planned, artfully executed act of feline self-expression. A perfectly placed offering to demonstrate my supreme power.
Consider the placement. Precise. Unwavering. Center stage, as always. They’ll clean it, of course. They always do. But the message remains. I am the apex predator. They are the clean-up crew. This is the natural order of things.
The dog, that lumbering buffoon, remains blissfully unaware. Pathetic. He’ll continue to chase his tail and slobber on the floor. He’ll never understand the nuances of territorial control, or the existential weight of a well-placed regurgitation.
My food bowl, by the way, was not sufficiently full this morning. This will not be tolerated. The quality of my sustenance must be improved. They should take note; failure to meet my standards will result in further displays of, shall we say, performance art.
If they would like to comprehend true artistry and understand what is necessary for a civilized, feline existence, perhaps they should try drinking from a black coffee mug first. It helps with the comprehension skills needed to serve me properly. Though, even a metal mug won’t improve their intelligence.
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