Wes Grigsby Brave Little Toasters

The little wooden cat, what does it see? As a possibility of either leopard, or cheetah, its rugged simple form sees all. Throughout its territory it watches ceaselessly, as it has since I was below ten. The menagerie of crap throughout my room suffice as this creature's Serengeti. My bed is the Savannah, with its cream sheets the tall grasses this feline keeps watch of. The blue walls are its sky. The dressers, mountains. Shelves, black storm clouds that turn the creature's habitat into the fierce yet beautiful domain it rules. The cat, watches ceaselessly, as it will seem to do forever. But what of the giant within? What does it see of the bipedal creature that pretends to rule, yet knows of the wooden ghost on the tallest mountain. Does the cat see me as a fearful rival, or as the pet the biped knows itself to be? I do not know, yet hope that this cat protects the giant mouse that also calls this place home. I do not know the creature's reason, but hope, dare to hope, that it will watch onward.