“I have to write, I can’t pick you up and cradle you right now.”

“Mrow?”

“You are a lone huntress of the night.”

“Mrow?”

“Claws sharp as crescent moons. Fur black as a bad-bad dream.”

“Mrow?”

“You are a cycloptic, nocturnal predator–you need no one!”

“Mrow?”

“Dammit…”