I petted a rug this morning. Bent down and stroked it before realizing it wasn’t my black cat.
Granted the lighting was dim, and I hadn’t had my first sip of coffee yet, but I talked to the rug in the voice I generally reserve for my black cat long before I got close enough to pet it.
I should’ve known something was up when she didn’t talk back.
A trip through life with fingers crossed and eternal optimism.
Doing the best I can with what I have
kind of sad, but not so bad with cheese. cheese not provided.
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Life in a flash - a bi-weekly storytelling blog
MARK PETRUSKA | WRITER
Short essays about novels and other fictional works
By Ian Garrabrant
Home of Micropoetry, Literature, art and philosophy.
Just a fiction writer, trying to reach the world.
I'd curtsy but I'm drunk.
Praying for Eyebrowz 
I’m pleased you could bend 🙂
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You’re right! I should celebrate!
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I was laughing when I came into comments then read Derrick’s comment! He’s right, you know, and I’m giggling that it’s so. At least you don’t have to feed the rug. 😉
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I’m not even sure what I’d feed it. Carpet Chow?
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Your rug is obviously a master of disguise.
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Obviously. Subversive rug.
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I’m still giggling to myself about this. I even told my husband who had a good laugh. I’m sure your black cat would be mighty jealous of the attention your rug had received.
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Getting old stinks!
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