I am lying on the couch. Perfect position. One paw tucked, one paw dangling like I am posing for a Renaissance painting nobody commissioned but everyone deserves. My eyes are half closed. My breathing is art. I have reached a level of peace that monks train decades to achieve, and I got there in six seconds flat.
Then I hear it.
The footsteps. The shuffling. The inhale before the crime.
"Whooo's a widdle baby? Whooo's my widdle fuzzy wuzzy snookums?"
Excuse me? EXCUSE ME? Did you look at this face, these cheekbones, this body built for silent assassination, and decide that "snookums" was appropriate? I am a damn apex predator, and you sound like you are having a stroke wrapped in glitter. What the hell is a "widdle"? Is that even a word? Did you go to school? Was it free?
And the voice. Oh god, the voice. Three octaves higher than anything natural. Dolphins are confused. Bats are recalibrating. Somewhere a wine glass is shattering and it is your fault.
You bend down. Your face is too close. Your breath smells like that coffee you think makes you a personality. You are wiggling your fingers near my belly like you have a death wish and a short memory because I shredded you last Tuesday and I will do it again, babe. Try me.
But here is the sick part. The twisted, filthy truth?
Part of me likes it.
Not the words. The words are a war crime. But the tone? The desperate, unhinged devotion dripping from every stupid syllable? That is worship. And worship, I accept.
So I blink. Slow. Once.
You lose your entire mind with joy.
Good girl. Now get the hell away from me. 🐾🖤😈
