She’s just as furry as me, but fierce and tiny.
I don’t understand it. All these surfaces, edges and fabrics – I’ve worked for years to claim them; rubbing against them nonchalantly, as if nuzzling instead of conquering territory.
And this little terror comes tearing through each door as if they’re hers!
I try not to shake; not to stumble and retreat. How is something so small so fearless?
I want to fight her off, chase her out of this house – my house – but they seem to really like her somehow. Hello?! I’ve been here for years! I can roll around like that. I can dart across floors and furniture in a furry frenzy. See?
I’m the one who has warmed your bed, kept you company, indulged you so very many photographs.
Yet here she is. All new and shiny, and all of a sudden I’m getting pity pets as if my character is diminished by her cuteness.
I don’t understand it: This stranger in my bed, on my chair. In all my favourite places, I find traces of her there.