hairballs!

Let me give you a brief language lesson. In my mother cat tongue, catonese, more harshly hissing than the caterwauling curse of Mror, the equivalent word in your language would be *hairballs*. It is an obscene utterance, just as it is an obscenely knawing feeling.

And if they shine that halogen light in my eyes again as they adjust where the task light should be, (The light is fine where it is mror it. Let it well enough alone.) my proprioception may just escape my calm, low lidded control and I will take out all this pent up stress as dotted lines of a path right up their legs t shimmying those scrawny poles like curtains.

But of course, I will not. I have utter control of myself, even if not 100% control of them, yet.

While I accept that for the time being I am not alpha of the pack, deferring to that nearly nippless gargantuum preemies that I live with.

While I concede that they have a (pardon my catonese!) *Hairballed* dib on anything that passes for food around here leaving me to scrounge the floor for dried up droppings of their careless luxury.

While I submit to their skimming right past my imploring eyes as they devise more and more dizzying odors and admit that they can’t help being the selfish cads they were born to be, I do reserve the right to be most regally, flicked off and will withhold all further cuddling until further notice.

Go ahead. Say something positive. I dare you.

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