Every night I groom myself to purr-fection and wait at the front door until the human lets me out. I dash outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tofu, the kitty who lives across the road. She is sleek with a dark coat, white chest and paws. It’s warm outside. Sprinting over the road, I linger in the garden, but Tofu doesn’t show. Ages go by and I head home. The human has left the door open and I slink inside, my tail low.
‘Did you see your girlfriend?’ The human is sitting on the couch watching the loud box. Reaching out, she flattens the fur on my head. I swipe her hand and then dig my claws into the rug. ‘Hey, stop that,’ she yells. I retreat to the chair in the other room.
Later, I find the human lying on the couch, making rumbling sounds. I want her to get off, so I can snooze and dream about Tofu—the two of us playing in the moonlight and sharing a mouse. I paw and whack the human’s body heaps of times, but she still rumbles, so I jump up and make myself comfy on my new, squishy bed.
When the human makes a loud growl, I wake up. She blinks, tries to sit up and is surprised to find me curled up on her lap. We stare at each other. Suddenly, the human springs up and I slide onto the floor. I’m not impressed and she complains, rubbing her belly.