I pen this note in the dead of night, when only the rats dare to play. A cat stares at me, not of my ownership, but one I must still care for. It peeks into my soul, not caring for the pain it wrought of my foot just moments before my awakening. I gaze back, wondering what I have done to deserve such a fate. All the while, an unknown local feline maestro is creating a BGM not unlike that of a slaughter.
One can’t help but wonder, amidst slight vexation and sleep-deprived amusement, why our nocturnal Meowzart chooses such an uncivil hour to serenade the seemingly unappreciative audience of human neighbors. Is it a secret feline doctrine to awaken the world with melodious yowls and share profound musings on the moon and mice?
While I harbor an abstract appreciation for his artistic endeavors, a small plea for a rescheduling—or at the very least, a decrescendo—in her early morning performances would be much appreciated. After all, a bit more slumber would make musical endeavors all the more enjoyable!
Convey my playful regards to the Maestro, and assure him his talent isn’t unnoticed—just preferably enjoyed post-slumber.
