In the right light he’s kind of cute (as long as you ignore the bits of dried blood that cling to the fur around his mouth and the razor sharp tips of his claws).
Exactly what color is he, you ask? Would you call that chartreuse? Maybe pistachio? That’s precisely what I mean. When the light is right you’ll be generous with names. You won’t say split pea. You won’t say puke.
His eyes are beady, but they’re bright. Sometimes they just look hungry, like he’s thinking about devouring me. But other times he looks intelligent, full of life, full of zeal. Sometimes I forget that his life’s goal is to make my life miserable.
Sometimes I think we might be related. Sometimes I think we might actually be friends.