It was the early afternoon, the hour when the sunlight sprawls across the pine floor and my mortal grows careless. I alone remained vigilant! A rustle. A scurry. Insolence incarnate! A mouse.
I became the weapon I am, forged of grace and precision. A leap, then a strike, and my realm was safe once more. I had restored the balance and upheld the dignity of my kind. I carried the conquered up from the shadowy depth, my tail high, ready to present the evidence of my devotion and skill to my charge.
Leigh sat clacking away at the strange glowing shrine of stories. I regally placed the trophy at her feet—a gift, a gesture of loyalty, and a clear invitation to sing my praises.
Instead she looked down, sighed and said, "Good kitty... Not again"
Good Kitty!
Not Again!
How dare she! This was the thanks I received for risking life, paw, fur, and whiskers against the forces of evil! No feast? No celebration? No proper adoration?
So I did what any self-respecting deity in fur would do. I launched the proof of my triumph directly at Leigh's ungrateful head. Precision impeccable. Impact, dramatic.
Leigh screamed—a sound somewhere between outrage and disbelief—leapt from her chair like a startled fledgling and promptly disposed of my offering. I watched, satisfied, as my message landed: reverence is never optional.
Afterward, I resumed my post on my tower, tail curled neatly around me. The realm was once again quiet, the air sweet with justice. Leigh was muttering something about "therapy, a dog, hazmat suit," and "boundaries" but I knew she understood my message. She always does.
Let the mice take heed, and let Leigh always remember—I am a Fey God in disguise, guardian of her stories, keeper of the peace, and sometimes when praise falls short, an excellent shot!
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