The woman’s boyfriend didn’t share a mutual attraction to her cat, Cleopatra. He asked why she was so lazy. Cleopatra’s sore old bones and instinct told her to nap.
Someone like him simply doesn’t matter in the leonine world.
He inquired, “Why doesn’t it run around? It should pounce when you play with it.” His lip curled with displeasure, unspoken hatred, and no tolerance for a grimalkin such as her. He’d stomp and clap, hissing “Scat!,” as Cleopatra cowered under the table.
Wise Cleo limped slowly to her owner, emitting a pitiful, ”Rorrrwl” in feigned injury. The woman quickly scooped her up and gasped, “Oh, what has he done to you?”
She wrote him a Dear John letter:
“I don’t know exactly what happened to Cleopatra, but you’re truly a monster. I never want to see you again!”
He also found a small brown gift Cleopatra left on his pillow.