I am a housecat.

My duty in life is to shed hair, bathe myself with my tongue, and irritate the allergies of the innocent.

Today, my owner forced me into a sweater.  A “cat” sweater.

I have no idea why.  I’m covered with fur. I assume it is because an exclusively-indoor, fur-bearing creature being stuffed into cold-weather clothing is meant to reflect the tenants of that sinister and enigmatic concept humans refer to as “cute”.

(Shudder.)

I dare not explore my owner’s thinking any further for fear it may lead to intractable madness.

I have determined to lay here in protest, on the floor of our central-heating-equipped dwelling, until this woolen body prison is removed and burned. Either that, or until the breaking of spring.  Until then, I try not to consider the disquieting ramifications of my owner’s interest in something called a “feline fashion show”.

Meow.