The cat looked at the king-sized bed and said, ‘Thanks for thinking of me. You can have the throne. I’m worn out with the hardness of it, and the public passing and passing as if I wasn’t there. Now here is a place for important thoughts. Leave me while I wash. I feel a curl deep in the bones of me; it can be a royal pain if I ignore it.’

Catch me watching a king-sized bed. The land of Nod, a field of cream calls softly; its quiet quilting pulls me down, so I can fly, find the curl deep in my bones, sleep all day long. If I had a cat I know it would talk just like that…if I was a cat I would still have my sense of equality, which doesn’t mean I think I should be royal, but that a dustman is as likely or deserving as a cat to look at a king – bed or not. Oh but the life of a cat is sooo superior to that of any royal, and considering the lack of stress and pressure, he/she can lick and lick at body parts whether camera-toting dolts are zooming-in or not. So let the cat wear purple and fart on the throne or bed – no one’s being murdered.


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