I feel a slight brush upon my calves 

Then, a light head butt. 

It’s Mr. Fry, the cat, looking up at me while I write. 

He’s concerned about my Word document 

My Google Docs, my Office Suite, PDFs and printables  

Shared and synced, blogged, published, and backed up.

Apparently, according to him 

My prose is threatening to verse 

My verse is proposing to prose 

My characters are in a state of mutiny 

My narrator refuses to put a word in edgeways 

My alliteration is acting like an assonance 

My plot took a poop 

“My dialogue is depressed, crying like a monologue,” he says. 

My enjambments are threatening to reach the right side of the page and beyond 

My cliffhanger is falling to its death 

My denouement denies all involvement  

I’m suffering from hyperbole!! It’s no exaggeration!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mr. Fry offers his help…… 

Searches at my feet, looking for stray words I may have disregarded.

He claims to have a better nose for such things.

He loves to bat words around like a plastic ball with a bell, engaging the toy muse. 

He licks the side of his front paws, then cleans his face with them 

Starts nibbling at his back paw toes in earnest 

Twists his head as far as it can reach to lick his back.

He’s intent on editing. 

Then rolls on his back, asking for a tummy rub (He’s kind of a dog kitty).

I’m thinking, the finished piece?   

No, he moans (He’s Siamese).

He wants better writing 

Writing that acts like catnip making him silly with play 

Taking him to a higher Realization of Cat 

To touch, to speak, to comprehend 

All that is of Cat.

Attaining Cat. 

I tell him, sorry dude, not today.

I promise to go to the store later to pick up a treat. 

I return to my scratching post. 

He gnaws on a T.S. Eliot book.