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Rated: E · Prose · Animal · #2126586
My sources of inspiration are the animal children which complete my home, sweet home.
A rustic Captain, waiting on my couch, thirty years aged in space travel, his Enterprise, my house; his name, Jean-luc Picard. He’s actually barely even three years old, and his head, the size of a cantaloupe when puppy, has shrunk. He’s not from a vineyard in the south of France, but north Texas. Captain’s siblings are feline, scattered upon mountainous furniture, claimed by furs. Thundercat, who is twenty-three pounds and as orange and white as Garfield the cartoon cat, fancies himself king. Lucy, who is as delicate, and formidable as her namesake, possesses sticky claws with which to make herself more fierce. She lives mostly on my belly, queen of this jelly castle. Mama-bean, who is as round as a snowball, is the youngest female, and makes that well known. Screaming and scratching at Lucy every chance she gets, hoping to someday garner rule, over this land. Her son, Michael Mow-ers, represents his namesake, Michael Myers, perhaps better than his counterparts. Michael waits in corners, watching, leering with illuminated eyes, hoping to steal chances and skirt across wooden floors, unseen; truly psychotic, if a feline ever was. My home has been roosted, arrested, by these animal children.

This house, a large box - rectangle on a hill - overlooking a great lake and populated military base which invites countless free airshows, local F-35s and sometimes Blue-Angels. My deck hangs over a hillside, towering one hundred feet above neighboring homes. I sit sipping tea, watching my children of choice romp in tall grasses, gazing as planes fly beyond; dreaming of the next bird to coo to. How they soar like wild condors, swooping for prey - soldiers in a base like tin toys on my shelves. My living room, filled with tall glass windows, long wooden floor beams, a projector and massive movie screen. The couch and recliner provide ample comforts for watching air-conditioned airshows. My large screened porch - outdoor twin of living room - only separated by a single French, glass door. It’s concrete floors, painted ceramic in color only because our contractor, un-savvy with stain. That purchase, we regret - the rest, worth millions beyond cost. Seven rooms off my living space, each teasing different purposes. The hub of my existence is the room in which I write - my garden of inspiration, distraction and choice; has been roosted, arrested, by mine animal children. I wouldn't change a thing.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2126586