I relish my hatred of cats,
those aliens that require
their own bathrooms, that stare
through me
with eyes that seem to be
recording data
for the mother ship in
preparation for The Attack,
which will initiate with an
infantry of spinsters,
long since spellbound, boarding
buses with bombs
strapped under their raincoats,
flanked by a hissing
brigade of those evil little
bastards that I
will await in my basement
crawlspace, rifle pointed
at the stairs, my chocolate lab
Pip growling at my side.
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