Rainy Days and Hairballs

 It began with a raindrop.

One single, pitiful plink against the window. I opened one eye, squinted toward the grey sky, and gave it exactly the attention it deserved: a long, theatrical sigh followed by a perfectly timed flop onto my side, like a Victorian actress fainting onto a fainting couch. (We don’t have a fainting couch, but the throw blanket on the armchair is worthy.)

Within ten minutes, the rain increased to a steady drizzle. The human lit a candle. A candle, mind you! Cinnamon-vanilla. I mean, if I wanted the room to smell like pastry and regret, I’d sleep in the oven.

I sat on the windowsill, glaring at birds smugly shaking their tailfeathers under a tree. One even winked at me. WINKED. The audacity.

The gloom settled in like a wet towel. I decided the room lacked drama. Something was missing. Something visceral. Something textural.

And that’s when I knew.

The moment demanded…
a hairball.

A masterpiece of mood.
A barf noir.
A drizzle of digestive expressionism.

So I began the ancient feline ritual of production:
Hack.
HAAACK.
Heh-heh-hhhHHHHAAACKKK—

Right in the center of the hallway rug.
The beige one. The expensive one. The one that screams “I trust my cat implicitly.”
(Amateur.)

The human, lured by the squelch of my triumph, rounded the corner holding a mug of tea and optimism.
She froze.
We locked eyes.
I narrowed mine.

"I am the storm," I whispered (telepathically, of course).
Then strutted into the bedroom like a damp weather goddess dropping the mic.

She spent ten minutes scrubbing the rug. I spent those ten minutes curled in a ball of smug on the warm laundry, purring like thunder, reflecting on my art.

Sometimes, rain inspires poets.
Sometimes, it inspires painters.

But me?
Rain makes me hurl performance art onto carpets.

You're welcome.