1 year old Marmie: You think it’s safe to go out there? That white stuff is truly gone?
15 year old Sam: Our person is in there, typing away all day on that warm flat silver device she won’t let us sit on. I don’t want to leave her side. She seems like she needs me. Especially when she stands up and screams.
12 year old Shadow: But it smells like those feathered creatures with wings out here. I gotta go gotta go gotta go oo boy!
Sam: She’s forgetting to open the big white cold beast to nourish herself. She’s only getting up from that chair and that warm flat silver device to feed us, and to feed these gerbera daisies (I heard her call them that. She loves naming her flowers out loud). No. I’m really worried about her. I won’t leave her side.
Marmie: She’s fine. She had enough energy to yell at me when I ate her swimsuit. She’s fine.
Shadow: You ate her swimsuit?
Marmie: Just the strings. They were so salty! Delish!
Sam: I’m going back inside. I heard her say she’s at 8,300 words, but she’s tired. She needs me.
Shadow: She’d better portray cats in a nice light in this novel. I’m sick of being portrayed as mindless creatures who lick themselves all day long. Hm. I wonder what these daisies taste like?
Marmie: Big furry beast with teeth on a leash! Run! Run! Run for your life!
Sam: Oh brother.