I fear I have become a cat toy.
She reeled me in slowly, like a fish. Indulgent, I became a plaything; now she requires it even as I sleep. Sleep? My toes are exposed, and there is no sleep.
I stagger toward the morning coffee, like a toy to the slaughter. She wraps herself around my legs, trying to bring me down. Playful.
Dusk. Her eyes are glowing saucers as she hurtles through the room, then she is gone. Lurking, ears flat against her predator's head. Targeting.
Dawn. Youthful feline energy, wide awake. I am the toy.
Luckily, "toys are infinitely adaptable and can take on meanings other than those they originally came with" (Dan Fleming, Powerplay, 1996).
ReplyDeleteWell then, I think I'll just turn myself into . . . a small cardboard box!
ReplyDeleteperhaps you should electrify yourself
ReplyDeleteWon't have to if she doesn't stop unplugging that table lamp.
ReplyDelete