I stretch out, swanning around in the lap of luxury, literally. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as a calloused hand massages my aching neck and back. Pure pleasure.

A wonderful stench floats up to my nostrils, and I inhale it, so content it physically makes my mind hurt.

Suddenly my ears perk up as I realise what the scent is coming from. A fat, flittering, fluttering, idiotic little flapping prey, the fun challenging ones that are always just out of reach, yet falter eventually. You merely have to outlast it.

I leap off the lap, landing silently on the shaggy carpet, feeling it rough and raw on the pads of my paws. Stealthily I crouch, eyes never leaving my quarry, creep towards the motionless flapper.

3...

2...

1...

I spring, fly. Claws outstretched, I know I’ve got it. Then- bam, I soar backwards, blocked by an invisible, but very solid, barrier. I fume as humans laughter rings out behind me and my prey is gone.

Morons.