Where I sit in his seat
Hullo there, this is remote cat.
Today, I have thought of a way to catch the man-feeder off guard. Every day, he comes down the steps. Every day he goes into the room with the glass paneled doors. Every day he closes them. Every day he tap-tap-taps away at the letter squares. Every day he stays there until the she-feeder comes home. And every day, I am a forlorn kitty with no affection. I have taken to splaying myself just outside the doors in an apparently vain attempt for him to notice me. Occasionally, my belly receives up to two pats, or perhaps three, when the middle-day eating begins. Most days, I console myself by taking a bath in this spot, reminding the man-feeder of my lowly state, wherein I must lick all of the poor fur off of my body that was not brushed away by a simple sweep of his hand. A simple sweep. I shall repay him later once I have filled my gullet with the dry bird-smelling granules he places in my bowl, by heaving it all upon his shoes when he least expects it. That is not, however, today's mission.
You see, every day, the man-feeder comes down and shuts the doors. Every night, the doors remain open, a spacious layabout palace whereupon I may place my posterior wheresoever I please. Tonight, the journey begins. Of course, I have done my day-resting to prepare for this moment. I descend down the stairs, jump into the chair, and await the arrival of the man-feeder. If I am in the room, surely he will not move me, seeing that I am now in the chair, and that it is mine. Possession and nine-tenths and so on. Then, he will stand and do his tapping, and stroke my fur until all of the strays are gone.
...
I awake to a vicious hand lightly tapping my hindquarters, as if to say, "You do not belong here, good madam!" How dare this hand awake me! I reach out and respond accordingly–with claws extended–as anyone violated in such a manner would. What wretch would dare arrest my slumber, seeing that I am in MY chair? OHHHHHH, IT IS THE MAN-FEEDER!!! I HAVE BITTEN THE HAND THAT INDEED HAS FED ME. DEAR GODS, PRESERVE ME...
On the other hand, hot black liquid has now stained my fur, and I hiss with ears flattened, as one would (nay, should) when doused with morning coffee. I scamper away from the room amidst loud noises and stomping about. A plush penguin zips just over my head. I believe I sense an accusatory tone flung in my general direction as well. I move more quickly, but do not acknowledge the tone with a glance. I am certain you know the old adage: never bring a drink to a knife fight.
My desire for affection must be sated another day, for this one has surely been ruined by a clumsy two-leg, who feeds me. I shall conceal myself under the bed until the morning is gone, at the least, and perhaps show my face when I detect he has regained his composure, the brute. It is possible that the time for Mission Fill-The-Shoes is nigh.