Author : Suzanne Borchers

Maybe in a dozen years I’ll forget you. Maybe I’ll forget your face and your feet and your fur, but not tomorrow or next week or next year. My nerve ends from optic to tactile quiver when I remember you.

I loved you.

Was it only last summer that I lay on the warm grass musing about life as I gazed with rapture at the stars, drawing imaginary lines? This one is a picture of a two-headed goat (see the horns?) butting his heads into Mighty Mouse’s butt–one per cheek. That one is a large muscular cat arching his back…

You stood over me looking down into my face, bending close enough to tickle my nose with your whiskers, your long black whiskers. I smiled a toothy smile at your bright yellow eyes, so wide with wonder. Your silver suit glistened like the Milky Way.

“I assume you have never seen a being like me before,” you purred through a device. “I know I have never seen one like you.”

“And never again,” I growled before I sunk my canines into your neck, leaping up to shake you like a rag doll.

Oh, you were delicious. Better than kibbles.


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