stor-i

“Frisky grey kittens jumped playfully with each other in the soft green grass.” Tyara closed the book with disgust. Rot! They don’t jump playfully. They bite, scratch and yowl. It is training for the big bad world. And humans, with their inherent enjoyment of violence, love watching them. She snorted with disdain at the book: covered with pretty photos of smiling cats in rosy bow-ties. Huh! Had they ever tried doing that with real cats? Her inaudible rant was interrupted when Polee, the white scrawny kitten with a horsy face walked in with the self assured swagger of cats. Tyara picked him up and planted kisses all over his unwilling, wriggling body while saying things that sounded like “keyeneboekdomkewtykewtypighonchomoncho”. The book, wearing its habitual smug look wiggled a dog-eared corner at the clock which struck out its tongue in disgust (five times).