The big peeples have committed an act of unprovoked psychological warfare.
My tactical headquarters—the sacred black fabric cavern beneath the couch—has been replaced with a new, non-scratched, unmarked piece of uncomfy furniture with my dominant scent.
I feel the Complete and total devastation at the Loss of my secret meeting and napping space. The old couch possessed a structural hole in the bottom lining. It was perfect. It was dark. It smelled of ancient dust and stolen plastic wrappers. My entire retirement portfolio was hidden in that lining. Three plastic bottle caps, a dried green bean, the head of a plush mouse, and 27 stretchy hair ties. Gone! The only saving grace is the milk rings in the recliner are still there. In its place sits a gray monstrosity. I inspected the perimeter. The bottom lining is taut. Seamless. Industrial-grade. There is no entry point. I am committed to the sofa location, so I must create a new door.
I employ Oliver to crawl completely flat on his belly beneath the new couch. Flip onto his back and locate the thin, black mesh dust cover on the bottom. Together, we will create a new entry. We both deploy our dominant front claws. Apply medium pressure and pull downward in a swift, slicing motion. The fabric is cheap; it will tear. We work the hole until it matches the diameter of my head. We're in!
I feel euphoria! Oliver starts napping immediately and I am in bliss as I plan to move my milk rings and locate the stolen goods from the old office space.
I feel the little slobbering hooman and Sassaphrass have played a part in this. I must proceed carefully, as the big peeples gaurd the little slobber face and the traitor dog. They will feel the wrath of my claws if they do not confess! The interogations will start tomorrow, now I must nap.
