“Say, Whisky, how would you like to be my ESC?”

“What’s an ESC?”

“My Emotional Support Cat.”

She yawned. The biggest one I’d seen for a while.

“What does it entail?”

“I carry you around on my head whenever I go outside. All you have to do is cling to my cap and channel me some good vibes now and again.”

“What’s in it for me?”

I was staggered to hear that from her. I thought I’d made it clear she’d have to start being seriously hardcore if I was going to keep her in cat-food, in the manner to which she’s become accustomed. It’s disappointing how selfish cats can get.

“Well… you’ll get out and about a bit more. And you’ll acquire a more elevated perspective on life. At present you see everything from 4 inches off the floor. Don’t you want to expand your outlook, as far as your limited abilities permit?”

I’ve been going around making myself obnoxious recently. As a result I’m living in fear of getting my earlobe shot off, like poor POTUS, who’s just waiting for someone to shoot off the other ear. I reckon that if I walk around with a kitten on my head, people will have to shoot it off before they get a clear sight of my cranium, which gives me time to duck. Besides which, even if the idea of scrambling my brains evokes nothing but a twisted smile, they might have second thoughts about hurting an adorable pussycat.

Whisky picked up on this immediately. “I’m not going to be your feline shield, whatever you think.”

“Aw, c’mon now, Whisky,” I pleaded. “My welfare is your welfare too. If something happens to me, who’s going to keep you in cat-food?”

“Some more considerate owner,” she retorted. “I have my own fanbase now, you know.”

Cats…!