20 June 2008

I Have a Stalker, and He is Six Inches Tall


Someone is chewing my clog and pulling on my pant cuff as I brush my teeth. Someone is watching me from the shower rod while I am in the bath, and he is shouting at me. Someone is chasing me on foot like a kitten after a string, pigeon toed feet racing after me. Someone is flying from room to room, like a green shadow. Someone is in my sheets, chewing the fabric. Someone is trying to bite me as I sweep the kitchen floor. And someone is trying to get under the crack of the closed bedroom door, running his beak back and forth along the wood floor.

His nickname is Bug and I am afraid I might accidentally squish him like one.

The dogs make a wide path as he passes, but the senile cat takes him for a friend before I steer her away, saving her a nip in the nose.

He wants death to all washcloths, all rags, all laundry folding. He wants mememememe. That is until he needs his nails clipped. Then I become the Hated One, the one he shall inflict many a wound upon the slow sleight of hand.

I have to walk softly and slowly and I need to look down at where I am going.

What is that scritching sound? What is that silhouette on the edge of my periphery, pupils locked on my back, wings about to take off?

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