It's Still Life

From the Old Woman’s Journal: The Cat Gets Dramatic. Again.

10:32 AM — Found the not-my-cat in the coal bin again this morning, covered in soot and undeserved gravitas — “researching ancestral hardship” and “honouring the noble struggles of the Welsh proletariat,” it claims. Impressive rhetoric for something that still chases string and shadows.

I left it a pickaxe (teaspoon) and a lunch pail (sardine tin) to support its method acting. The crow has already unionised.

12:15 PM — The cat returned for elevenses, late, demanding “back pay” (tuna) and a “pension scheme” (also tuna). I tossed kibble toward the coal bin while whistling Working in the Coal Mine off-key.

3:47 PM — The cat is teaching the kittens how to “scab” by napping in the middle of the hallway. I’ve filed the protest under “Local Politics.”

4:44 PM — The cat demands a fainting couch, citing “artistic burnout.”

5:10 PM — The kittens stage a dramatic mine collapse using throw pillows and theatrical whimpering. I gave it a standing ovation. The crow did not.