What the Cat Typed

I jolt awake in the dark.
Well, it would be dark except my computer,
as have I, has come out of sleep mode.
It’s making that rapid repetitive dull sound,
DuhDuhDuhDuhDuhDuhDuhDuhDuhDuhDuhDuh,
of a key being held down by a kitty paw.
Yes, when I forget to shut down my computer,
my cat types at midnight, or 2:00 a.m,
or any time of the day or night when inspiration moves her.
I rise to peruse what she’s drafting.
You never know when you might stumble across a magnum opus.
She has typed the letter “r” one or two thousand times,
her manuscript a long block of perfect “r”s,
evidencing that this is all work and no play on her part.
“Marie,” I ask, “what’s the name of this masterpiece,
the cacophonous production of which has roused me from slumber?”
She lets up on the typing as I pry her with some effort from the keyboard.
“I call it,” she says, “What the Dog Said.”
“Brilliant,” I say. “I may have to borrow the idea from you.”
She licks her paw meditatively, eyes me, flexes her claws,
and I am duly forewarned that I will pay in blood
should I attempt to appropriate her intellectual property.

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