The Kingdom of Chaos

It began, as most uprisings do, at 5:15 a.m.

I made one mistake. I got up to pee.

I did not pause to admire the 155-pound Irish Wolfhound standing on the couch like she was surveying the Serengeti.

I did not offer tribute. I did not acknowledge her sovereignty.

Clover corrected this oversight with a howl that could have summoned Vikings.

Copper looked like he wished for death. Ginger did not move. She simply watched.

I returned from the bathroom only to be ceremonially captured.

Clover gently grabbed my arm, collapsed her own legs, and pulled me face-first into her belly floof like a collapsing cathedral made of fur.

Before I could recover, she determined my compromised center of gravity was ideal for spa services.

I was exfoliated.

Smudges chose that moment to attack the tie on my robe like a twenty-pound catfish in a bass tournament. There were spins. At least five. The tie detached. She won.

I extricated myself from Clover’s grasp, slid to my knees, closed my eyes to reconsider every life decision since childhood, and Smudges climbed me.

She scaled my robe. She reached my shoulders. She fell over my head. We were eye-to-eye. She bit my nose. Not near my nose. Not politely. Inside my nose holes.

I briefly considered jewelry options.

Clover, hearing my squeak, launched a kangaroo kick to my chest in what she believed was helpful participation.

I fell over. I looked up.

Nutmeg approached. Big amber eyes. Slow paw lift. Toe beans expanding.

Whap.

Whap.

Whap.

Chirp.

He walked away.