Thirty Days Of Julia: Day Seven

The tabby ball of snoozing fluff she called
Dory (as in Previn, not in Hunky)
was a fat cat I suggested would best
be named Tory. The wrong one hooked her claws
in me. Sat on my lap, nuzzled my neck
and left me breathless due to allergic
rhinitis. The bites on my neck were flea
not love. When I locked the door late at night,
I expected her to catch mice. Toms sang
as plaintive as whales in the deep ocean
of Essex. The stairwell stank of feline
graffiti beneath an illegible
scribble of human tags. Her litter tray
became a minefield for poor excuses.