Flagg is restless. He circles the computer chair like a shark around a boat, making sure to rub his tail on the underside of my legs so that I cannot fail to notice his presence. Then he pads hurriedly to the back door, and when he reaches it, he scratches his paw on the galss a few times and then stares out into the barren field that is my back yard. Perhaps he wants to hunt all those little blades of grass bending in the wind. Maybe the fading light draped over the hills has caught his eye.

Now he turnes, takes a few steps toward me, and then arches his back while yawning. His jaw clicks shut, and he arches the other way, stretching his back legs. Then he walks over to the side of the chair, looks up at me with longing and angst, and sets in punishing the fabric. Then back to the window briefly, then over to me to look up and make a little "mrrgow!", then back over the window to scratch and imagine his freedom.

Back over to me, staring into my eyes as he scratches the back of the chair again, trying to communicate his pent-up and long-suffering whiney nature, to exercise his rightful power over me despite his inferior physique, his general shortness and his puniness. But he fails. I have no pity for this cat. He will get no dashing journey outside. He will eat no birds and field mice, nor become a dragon to things even smaller than him.

Hey gaiz, catzzz.