Zoe the Poet
My human is something else. First she thinks she’s a writer, now she thinks she’s a painter. I think she’s going through a mid-life crisis.
Listen to this. I overheard her telling someone how she has taken up her old “hobby” again. Really? She painted three, maybe four, paintings about ten years ago and she calls that a hobby? If a cat could shrug, I would. I can’t shrug, really. But I can yawn.
I’m actually delighted that she has taken up this activity. See, she set up this long table. In fact, she set up two tables, and on one of them was a box. She should know that a box is irresistible to a cat. I mean, a cat is drawn to a box like a moth to a flame, like a flea to a dog, like a woman to a sensitive man, like—well…
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