Interview with the Vampire Cat

Fear me.

About three years ago, Wife brought home an adorable kitten, who, for the purposes of anonymity, shall be heretofore referred to as “Cat.” Where did Wife obtain Cat? On a website. Did you hear that, Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, and Phillip K. Dick? We just cancelled our space exploration program, but it’s OK because mankind can purchase cats using an information superhighway that exists in the sky. I digress. Cat, who entered our world swaddled in velvet and rainbows and could barely fit in the palm of my sweaty hand, quickly grew into a large, predatory maniac who dwells in the under-realm and feeds on my ankles in the middle of the night. You see, much like a mosquito, or Vampyre, Cat seems to have developed an affinity for my blood. He cares not for the flesh of Wife or that of dinner guests; indeed, Cat refuses to dine on anything but the very choicest of Caucasian bone-in-ankle. This has proved bothersome because my feet tend to run hot at night, and I like to let them cool over the covers (Insolent fool! This is akin to dangling gleaming white tuna carcasses from a charter boat at midnight near Shark Island, which of course, is found in Nightmare Sea). If I listen carefully, I swear I can hear a German Witch chanting, right before a cross between a Dachsund and hyena leaps out of the shadows and sinks its teeth into my ankle-shanks. Sometimes, when Wife picks Cat up for a cuddly hug, there is a distinctive look in his lifeless doll’s eyes, directed over the shoulder of Wife and in my general direction. It is a look that says, “In time, mortal. In time.”

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