“Ten.” (22 March 2016)

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My ten minutes tonight are spent eating pineapple out of a sticky, shrink-wrapped styrofoam pack. The kitties are horrified by the lack of attentiveness to their needs. Curly mopes by his empty dish (passive-aggressive). Poppy and Blackie position themselves at my feet (aggressive-aggressive). They are riveted by my repetitive hand-to-mouth actions. I hold out the fork to Blackie, who rears up on his back legs and delicately sniffs its pineappley tines. He reaches out a flawless midnight paw, and I pull it away. 

Poppy gives up his stare-down after awhile, and takes to grooming himself around his balls. I’m reminded of the story – an urban legend, it must be – of the man who broke his neck trying to give himself a blowjob. Poppy’s neck is in perfect working order, due to the many more little bones he possesses.

After a bit they both curl in on themselves, like furry rocks, and stare moodily into the distance – helpless against the gigantic pineapple-eating sloth who callously withholds nourishment, and yet cruelly taunts them with her own.

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